


Cause and effect

by poeticjustice22



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Affectionate Insults, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Auror Harry Potter, Awkward Conversations, Bisexual Harry Potter, Bonding, Demisexual Severus Snape, Denial of Feelings, Depression, Developing Relationship, Feelings Realization, Forgiveness, Friendship/Love, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Healing, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light Angst, Lily Evans Potter & Severus Snape Friendship, Loneliness, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Possibly Pre-Slash, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-War, Rating May Change, Recluse Severus Snape, Recovery, Severus Snape Lives, Slow Build, Snarky Severus Snape, Spinner's End, Survivor Guilt, Unintentional Redemption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 14:12:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18758038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poeticjustice22/pseuds/poeticjustice22
Summary: Snape survives thanks to Harry using the Time-Turner to go back to the Shrieking Shack and save him with help from Fawkes’ phoenix tears. Now, Snape, still recuperating, has become withdrawn and recluse at Spinner’s End, determined to live his life in self-imposed misery, and only a certain young man is stubborn enough to seek him out and break through the former spy’s cantankerous shell.It’s the start of an unlikely friendship. Will it turn into something more?Tropey as hell (sorry, couldn’t resist).





	1. Chapter 1

Harry swallowed as he gauged the austere-looking building rising above him. Spinner’s End was certainly no mansion, nor was it your average Wizarding establishment. The generic, soot-covered brickwork – repeated in the several neighbour buildings – alluded to every industrial Muggle town in Great Britain, many now in a steep socioeconomic decline. A shudder ran up Harry’s neck at the sheer cheerlessness of the place. He didn’t know if he should be surprised by Snape’s childhood conditions or not; Cokeworth was, after all, his mother’s childhood home as well. Yet, the thought did not inspire any great comfort.

Hesitantly knocking on the front door, Harry stood back and waited, anxiously. How was he to greet the man now – after everything? Did Snape still hate him?

For the past year, Harry had viewed Snape’s memories of his mother and the Marauders again and again, trying to come to terms with these new images of his parents and his former Professor, contrasting to everything he thought he knew. Even though he now understood much more of Snape’s motives before and during the war, he was still left with more questions than answers, he felt. And with the man who could provide the answers now alive and breathing, thanks to Harry’s own intervention, he had an apt excuse to seek him out.

Plus, Harry was, admittedly, worried about the man’s welfare.

Despite the rigorous Auror training programme, he had made sure to visit Snape as often as he could at St. Mungo’s to follow the progress of his slow recovery but was unfortunately called away when the former spy finally woke. Soon after, Snape’s hearing at the Wizangamot took place and Harry was adamant in his testimony on behalf of the man, presenting the memories as evidence for Snape’s motives. Of course, he also had to explain how he had had a hand in Snape’s survival, in the first place. Snape’s face had been one of shock and anger the moment it was revealed and Harry had desperately wished he could somehow have relayed the information to him beforehand and in private. However, there had been no time to smooth ruffled feathers; the sentence was announced: A year’s house arrest with limited magical accessibility. It caused an expectant outcry from everyone but Harry. He had been exuberant, in fact (anything was better than Azkaban or even exile) but the second he met the eyes of his former Professor, he didn’t know what to think of the man’s reaction to the verdict. Was he relieved? Sad? Angry? He only stared intensely at Harry with the same expression that made Harry think he could see right through him and yet, at the same time, seemed to search for something. What, Harry couldn’t tell, and he had responded with a questioning frown as they stared at each other in midst of the chaos of the courtroom. He never got an answer to his silent question; guards were already dragging a still severely feeble Snape through the frenzied crowd, trying to stave them off. The last Harry had seen before he too was swarmed by press and court officials was the piercing, black eyes of his former Professor staring unblinkingly at him as the doors swung close behind him.

In the months afterwards, Harry focused all of himself into his Auror training. Or, well, not _all_. McGonagall had been so kind to keep him sporadically updated on how everything fared at Hogwarts and at one point mentioned Snape turning down a position as DADA instructor when his house arrest was over. The offhand remark manifested itself in Harry’s subconsciousness and every so often his mind strayed to the fearsome wizard and how he was faring; cooped up in his childhood home with no magical allowances. Could he make potions? Could he even _stand up_ or was he confined to his bed all the time?

Suddenly the door flew open, sending Harry crashing back into reality; where he was, in front of Spinner’s End, about to get reacquainted with the man who had haunted his dreams for a year now.

What met him was practically a shadow of the former spy (which was saying something, given the man had not been much to look at, in the first place). If the years as a double-spy under the duress of Voldemort and, yes, Dumbledore, had not done him in, the attack of Nagini certainly had. While he _was_ standing upright, Snape’s willowy form hunched ever so slightly into a distrustful stance and his sallow, thin face and hooked nose stood out even starker against the blackness of his eyes and lanky hair. What struck Harry the most was the noticeable scar from Nagini’s bite marring the white flesh of the man’s throat. Fawkes’ tears may have been able to save his life but not quite enough to make the reminder of the attack vanish completely.

At first, the dark wizard seemed taken aback by the appearance of Harry, then he quickly masked his surprise and narrowed his eyes in suspicion, mouth pulled into a trademark sneer. “What do _you_ want, Potter?”

Harry shot him an awkward smile (had he _ever_ actually smiled at the man before?) and gestured with the box in his hand. “Um, I bring food... from Molly. Chicken soup. It’s good. Thought you might, um,” he gaze flicked briefly across Snape’s slumping, black-clad form, “need it. And don’t worry, it’s not poisoned,” he chuckled nervously, already regretting his wording by the look in his former Professor’s face.

Snape eyed the Tupperware with rampant disdain as if he took personal offence at the gesture of combined goodwill though the quiet flare of hunger underneath the dark stare didn’t escape Harry’s notice. He worried the man hadn’t had a decent meal since, well, forever, by the looks of him.

The black gaze zoomed in on him again, and Harry was immediately reminded of his school years under the man’s tutelage. He quietly suppressed the apprehensive shiver running down his spine. Merlin, had it been foolish to come?

“ _Why_ are you here?” Snape droned pointedly, unconvinced by Harry’s cover and offer of food. Admittedly, it was a bit out of the blue and perhaps uncharacteristic but Harry had to try _something_ to come in contact with him. Every other attempt of correspondence had seemed to fail.

Swallowing, Harry felt very much like a wayward schoolboy again and shifted on his feet; the movement caught by the sharp eyes of the former spy who only narrowed his eyes even more. “Um, actually, sir, I was hoping I could talk to you.”

Surveying him a beat longer, Snape replied crisply. “About _what_? I believe I’ve already stated my thanks for your intervention on my behalf. Not that I particularly _asked_ to be _saved_ ,” Harry cringed and ducked his head, _ouch, that one stung_ , “but since there’s little I can do about it now, I’d like to be left in peace. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. We’ve settled the score, Potter.”

At that, Harry snapped his eyes up to meet the dark, blazing stare glaring back at him. ‘Settled the score’? Did he actually think it was about that? _Guilt_? Well, it had been partly that, but Harry couldn’t rightly voice what had made him set out to retrieve the Time-Turner and Fawkes the minute he had reviewed Snape’s memories after the Battle of Hogwarts. Something else. Something urgent. The nagging thought wouldn’t seem to leave his mind. He couldn’t settle, couldn’t sleep properly. He became obsessed with the quest of saving Snape, so much that he’d even driven Ginny away. He couldn’t explain it; not to her, not to anybody. Hermione and Ron eventually gave up trying to understand their friend’s obsession with the former spy; they supported him the best they could, but even they had to throw in the towel. They had their own lives to live, after all.

But Harry couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ , give up.

“I – ” Opening and closing his mouth, Harry was aware of how stupidly he probably looked. Snape merely observed him with a steady glower, a bare minimum of patience painted in his ashen face. Resigned, Harry shook his head. “I wasn’t trying to settle a score. I only wanted to help.”

“Yes,” Snape drawled bitingly. “And you seem to have succeeded immensely in that department. I commend you.” Harry winced again. It was certainly _not_ meant as a compliment. “Now, would you _kindly_ remove yourself from my property? I am in no mood to receive visitors as you may have surmised.”

He was already closing the door when Harry cried out, “ _Wait_ ,” stumbling forward. He managed to hold back the door an inch, meeting the incensed gaze of the dark wizard.

“What part of ‘no’ is not penetrating that dunderheaded skull of yours, Potter?” Snape hissed. However, he didn’t try and force the door shut. For a second, the young wizard doubted he actually _could_. Auror training had provided Harry with a bit more muscle since the war, though he could likely never run from some of the more lasting effects of a malnourished childhood. But Snape... He _might_ have been lean-muscled once under all those menacing teacher’s ropes, but _now_ he looked like mere skin and bones up-close.

The notion didn’t sit well with Harry but, nonetheless, he stayed put. He had come this far and he took the unresisting door as a sign that he might be able to get through to the stubborn man. “I _must_ speak with you, sir.” Besides body mass, Harry had gained a couple of inches and though he was by no means tall, Snape’s now less-than-ramrod stature allowed him to gaze almost directly into the dour man’s bottomless orbs. “ _Please_ ,” he implored and was surprised to see the black eyes widen a fraction; turning into the very same look he had received across the courtroom a year ago. “I promise I won’t impose on your privacy for anymore than necessary,” Harry continued, his tone softening, “but since you haven’t responded to any of my letters or any other caller I’ve tried to get through to you, I had hoped you might be willing to meet me in person.”

Snape stared back as if stunned, but Harry couldn’t read his expression. Perhaps it had been wrong to be so forward? Perhaps he shouldn’t have pushed? After all, the forbidding man was notoriously ill-tempered and aloof to a fault. And given their shaky history and Snape’s hatred for everything touching the name of Potter, dropping by in person was perhaps a bit too optimistic? Still, Harry had run out of options and he couldn’t let the man go just yet (as obsessive as that sounded). Perhaps it was a Gryffindor flaw of his, perhaps he had picked up one or two traits too many from Hermione’s work ethics. Perhaps he simply _was_ on the path of redemption and Snape was the first person on that path. In any case, no explanation seemed satisfactory enough to explain why Harry had gone back in time to save the misanthropic (anti)hero and why he was standing here, in front of Snape’s childhood home and the owner himself, trying to reach beyond the impossible non-magic shield that was Snape’s persona.

He didn’t know why, but he _had_ to try. He _had_ to.

However, before Harry had had the chance to blink, the box of food was ripped from his grasp and the tall man had spun on his heel with his signature move and disappeared inside the house. What made Harry stand back, gaping stupidly at the empty doorframe, was the fact that the ex-spy had _not_ immediately slammed the door in his face but apparently chosen to leave it open.

“Do you plan to stand there dawdling all day, Potter?” Snape snapped from somewhere within the narrow house, likely the kitchen given the noises of cutlery being pulled out and set aside. It roused Harry from his momentary stupor.

Had... Had Snape just– _invited him in_?

Gingerly, he took a step closer, poking his head inside. “Um, sir...”

“For Merlin’s sake,” rang the churlish voice from afar. “Do you need an actual invitation, Potter? Are you a vampire? _Do_ come in and close the door behind you!”

Like a Pavlovian response, Harry ventured inside the house and closed the door behind him. He stood for a second, taking in his sombre surroundings of the entry hall, bathed in a sparse, unforgiving light, smelling faintly of spices and herbs and old wallpaper. Shuffling a bit on his feet, he wondered if he was supposed to wait someplace else, or whether Snape had any intent of returning anytime soon. Perhaps the dark man was presently gorging himself on Molly’s chicken soup in the kitchen? The image brought a small smile on Harry’s lips and he found that he didn’t mind so terribly to be the neglected house guest as long as Snape put on some flesh on his corpse-like body.

Deciding to risk it (either way, he’d probably get scolded for loitering), Harry stepped closer and peered into the adjacent living room. The furniture and decorations were scarce and pragmatic, suiting the owner of the house. Everything looked very old and used, and Harry got the impression that Snape had not grown up in a very wealthy home. His eyes caught sight of the dominant portraits hanging above the fireplace, displaying two severe figures bearing striking physical resemblance to Snape. Harry gathered those were his parents. While the man were staring at him with a hard-pinched expression of undiluted disgust (reminding Harry of Lucius Malfoy more than Snape), the woman had a melancholic countenance; her sunken eyes following him as he ventured inside the room the same way he remembered the portrait of Ariana Dumbledore had done. Snape must have put some kind of Silencing Charm on both because the portrait of the man was clearly muttering several colourful terms under his breath while the portrait of the woman seemed reluctant to speak at all and merely shook her head in sad resignation.

“Don’t pay any attention to them,” came the deep, succinct voice of his former Professor from the door to the kitchen and Harry spun around, heart in his throat. _Huh_. Still had _that_ effect on people. Some things never changed.

He watched as Snape approached with a tea tray in his hands and put it on the table between the furniture. His posture had straightened a bit but seemed no less on guard, as if he suspected Harry to turn into a former escapee Death Eater colleague at any moment and hex his bony arse into oblivion. Harry snorted under his breath, unable to help himself, and Snape cast him a sizzling look. “Find something amusing, Potter?”

Harry’s face froze. “Er... No, sir. No, I wasn’t finding anything amusing.”

Raising a seasoned eyebrow, Snape jeered, “Indeed,” and proceeded to take seat in a black, high-backed, winged leather chair that suited his persona to such a magnitude that Harry felt the snicker bubbling up in his throat again and promptly pressed his lips together, trying to appear just as serious. It helped little.

With a concise but elegant wave of his hand, Snape gestured for Harry to take place in the opposite seat, this one chubby, brown and undistinguished in appearance. It looked like it had been well-used many years ago but hadn’t been seated in since. Once again, a myriad of questions popped up in Harry’s mind but he refrained from instinctively glancing up at the gloomy portraits hanging above the small fireplace. It would be too impertinent, too soon, to dive into such personal questions (however, was it likely he ever got the chance to ask again?).

Rubbing his forehead, feeling the start of a headache coming on, Harry leaned back into the chair with a small sigh. He sensed Snape observing him from the opposite chair and as if reading his thoughts, his former Professor finally spoke in that carefully measured voice of his, neither curt nor polite. “Have some tea.” The teapot rose in the air and started pouring the most heavenly, amber-coloured tea Harry had ever smelled into two cups. Nodding when he wanted sugar and milk, the finished cup flowed into his hands, and Harry couldn’t help being secretly impressed by the beautiful elegance of the small display of nonverbal and wandless magic that one of the most formidable wizards he had ever come across had just performed.

“Now,” the solemn man started, having taken a couple of sips from his own cup before putting it back on the table, and leaned back with his fingers steepled. “Since you seem to have persistently forced your way into my living quarters, what is this pressing matter that you feel such need to discuss, Potter?”

Ignoring the man’s bite, Harry pursed his lips in thought. How to begin indeed? Mulling it over some more, he eventually decided to go for a peace offering. “I am aware that you bear no general fondness for me, sir,” he began and heard the concurrent snort from the man across from him, “but I hope, despite and _because_ of the past history between us, that we can somehow bury the hatchet and come to some sort of truce.”

Snape perused him above his steepled fingers and raised a fine-tuned jet-black eyebrow. “ _That_ is your pressing concern for coming here, Potter? Some misconstrued, sentimental notion of extending an olive branch?”

Harry tried not to pull his mouth into a frown at the man’s blatant mistrust. Why was it so hard to believe? Wasn’t saving his bloody life proof enough in the first place? Calming his breathing, Harry looked straight at him and countered in a clear, levelled voice. “I am sincere, sir. I want to make peace in order to move forward.”

Carefully scrutinizing him, Snape’s hard, sceptical expression hadn’t budged one inch. “What do you expect, Potter? That we suddenly sit down and braid friendship bracelets together?”

In _any_ other setting, Harry’s lips would have quirked into a smile at the phrasing. Yet, Snape’s contemptuous tone was unmistakable. Expelling a low sigh, he rubbed his brow once more and shook his head. “No, sir. I don’t expect anything, I guess. I– I only wanted to see you; to see if you were well.”

That got a reaction from the rigid man. His black eyes widened a tick and something flashed in them before they quickly glanced away. “I see,” he mumbled before steeling his voice into unforgiving flint. “Well, as you can see, I am still recuperating in this miserable, godsforsaken place,” he made a careless, outward gesture. “I am watched 24/7 and have no magical accessibility of any significance, no thanks to _you_ ,” his words dripped with acidic poignancy, hard gaze boring into Harry, making him wince. Apparently, he _wasn’t_ grateful for the outcome of the verdict. Did he mean to say he _preferred_ the horrid conditions of Azkaban compared to his current confinement?

“I – uh...” Harry hedged, unsure how to respond. Should he _apologize_?

Snape’s thin mouth was pressed into a taught line as he glared back. “Spare me your maudlin excuses. I am sure you got it exactly as you imagined.”

Harry gawked. “ _Excuse_ me?”

Sneering maliciously, Snape continued in his scathing tone. “You wanted this, didn’t you, Potter? When you testified on my behalf? You wanted to see me in this humiliated condition, confined in my wretched childhood home, begging for scraps and gestures of,” his lip curled in distaste, “ _goodwill_. Only so you could feel better about yourself; so you could sleep peacefully at night. I imagine that is the true reason why you are here, now; to appease your own guilt. Had I ended up in Azkaban, your conscience would have weighed you down, wouldn’t it?”

Harry could barely believe what he was hearing! Did the resentful old codger _actually_ think Harry _wanted_ this?! That it was some part of self-involved scheme to calm his own conscience?

Yes, perhaps Harry hadn’t slept restfully at the thought of Snape spending the rest of his life in Azkaban, but the notion had been no less true in regards to the case of Draco Malfoy whom Harry had also testified on behalf of. He _knew_ of the duress both men had endured during Voldemort’s reign and he forgave them. They might both be unpleasant individuals but that was no excuse to wish them ill-harm for the rest of their lives.

To think that Snape in fact carried such searing, false assumptions of Harry’s motives for his testimony and for coming here today was, frankly, disheartening. But perhaps not surprising? It was _Snape_ , after all. Harry didn’t think the man had trusted a single soul in his entire life, especially not after Lily’s rejection of him.

Worrying his lower lip, Harry acquiesced to the fact that his quest to break down the dark wizard’s prickly walls and reach the good man he _knew_ hid in there somewhere would take longer than expected. (How had he _ever_ imagined otherwise..?).

“I understand your wariness to my coming here,” Harry sighed, scratching his neck, but remained steadfast. “Even your mistrust towards the reasons of my testimony; I’ve never really done anything to deserve your trust before I saved your life in the Shack,” he stated this matter-of-factly, detecting the small bob along Snape’s scarred throat from the corner of his eye. “I may have wanted to make up for the sacrifices other people made on my behalf. Call it a hero complex or not. But I never asked for it, not _any_ of it. I never wanted people to _die_ for me. If I could I would have saved everyone that night.” He forcibly held back the clogging of his throat. “I know you don’t believe me. But I _did not_ want to see you suffer in any way possible. That’s why I testified. Because you _showed_ me,” he spoke emphatically, referring to the memories and knew, without looking, that Snape understood. “In either case, I haven’t slept very restfully since then, if you must know,” Harry shrugged dejectedly, knowing his self-pitiful state was shining through. His sleepless nights didn’t so much have to do with Snape but with his life in general, however he was not about to dive into that right now. He had already said too much to the embittered man who was currently observing him with a blank, unreadable look.

The latter didn’t seem to have let go of his distrustful demeanour but something in his attitude had changed if the constriction of his sharp jaw was anything to go by. For some reason, the anger didn’t seem to be directed towards Harry or anything in particular. Perhaps himself?

That didn’t sit well with Harry either. He didn’t want the self-effacing man to turn the blame inwards anymore than he probably already did.

Trying to deflect the Snape’s gloomy thoughts, Harry started again. “Sir, I –” The sharp, penetrating gaze honed in on him and he gulped visibly. “I hope you don’t think I come here as some sort of PR-stunt,” _Merlin, that sounded even worse_ , and he quickly rephrased. “If not for anything else then trust me when I say I _truly_ wanted to see you, sir.” He implored once more, not at all sure it worked like it did the first time. Though his motives were sincere, the latent doubt in Snape’s eyes began to slowly trickle into his subconsciousness and anchor itself to Harry’s insecurity. _Godric_ , no matter how much he wanted to make amends face-to-face, he truly loathed being scrutinized by the man!

Unable to bear the brunt of his stare any longer, Harry did the cowardly thing and scrunched his eyes shut; quietly praying to the higher powers that Snape would not throw him out on his arse.

“I suppose I can show you some amount of leniency,” Snape’s deep voice rang out in the glum atmosphere of the room. Harry blinked his eyes open and gawked at the dark wizard who merely continued to observe him gravely.

“Oh. Um, that’s good... I guess?” Harry replied, mildly stunned. It _was_ good, wasn’t it? He could never tell with his former Professor.

The dry snort from the other side of the room seemed to reassure his ongoing doubts. “Have no fear, Potter. I currently possess no measures to enforce any deserved punishment, other than, of course, by mere chance, spilling hot tea into your lap, but I doubt that will get me much satisfaction since it will only extend my house arrest indefinitely.” His droll tone could have fooled Harry to believe he actually took pleasure in conveying that little fact, seeing as Harry immediately blanched and his hands protectively twitched towards his own crotch area.

“I- I will be sure to keep that in mind.” He swallowed thickly.

Ducking his head, Snape continued with a professorial demeanour, his tone deceptively unaffected by the small, unusual exchange. “Now, if you are done making excuses for being here, I would prefer to get to the matter at hand. I presume you have questions about,” he paused for the briefest of seconds, “the past that you want to ask?”

How could he forget how intelligent the man was? Harry blinked and stuttered. “Er, yes, as a matter of fact, I have.” _Great, Harry. If you could sound a little less dense, that would be great._ He silently berated himself. “Right, um, I was only wondering, that is, I wouldn’t want to open up any old wounds –”

“Merlin’s beard!” Snape’s terse voice cut through Harry’s fumbling words like a knife. “Get to the point while we’re still young!”

“Oh, er, well,” Harry finally managed to stutter through a sentence, “I was merely hoping you could tell me a bit more about my parents, especially my mother... I mean, since you seemed to know her so well...?” He hardly even dared look over at his former Professor. When he finally did, in the roaring silence that followed, he saw that Snape’s composure had suddenly turned stiff and from the looks of his averted stare, he didn’t feel entirely comfortable with the question.

It was odd imagining the former spy being put on the spot given how he had endured years of torture and mental attacks from Voldemort, never once blowing his cover. Still, Voldemort didn’t know about what Harry’s mother had meant to Snape; the singular reason for his continuous fight for everything good in this world, even if it meant taking down Voldemort with him.

Harry swallowed as he took in the tense wizard across from him. He was so relieved to know Snape was alive to experience what a difference his bravery had made to the Wizarding world and yet he secretly prayed the man didn’t still bear any resentment towards his former student for saving him. Because... Snape didn’t still have a death wish.

...Did he?

It wasn’t like it was a foreign subject to Harry. In fact, he was intimately familiar with it. But that was all in the past now. He had learned to move on, thanks to the support of his friends and acquaintances. Everybody who had ever stood up for him, fought for him.

Yet, as far as he knew, nobody had ever stood up for or fought for Snape. Not when it mattered. Only Harry. And maybe not even enough to earn his trust.

“I don’t mean to pressure you, sir,” he started carefully, afraid to rouse the man’s temper. His chosen silence didn’t bear well. “I know it cannot be easy to dig up the past like that, considering how painful it was, and the fact that you were in, um, love with my mother while my father treated you so–”

“By Salazar!” Snape exhaled harshly, making Harry flinch, and pinched the bridge of his long nose. “Where did you get that idea, Potter? You of all should be able to grasp that the love of friendship can be just as strong, if not _stronger_ , than romantic love!” He berated him like he used to berate him for not knowing the difference between powdered Mandrake Root and Root of aconite in Potions class.

Harry blinked, utterly stunned. “You- You mean to say, you _weren’t_ in love with my mother?”

Sighing, Snape bowed his head, the black hair obscuring his face. “I loved her, yes,” his voice seemed mileages from the persona Harry was used to witnessing, “but I wasn’t anymore in love with her than you are with Miss Granger.”

Grimacing slightly at the thought, Harry generally grasped his meaning. This certainly put a new perspective on things. Or not? Wholly confused, he raked a hand through his hair, aware of the observant black gaze fixed on him again. Blushing lightly ( _why_ , he didn’t know), it was his turn to duck his head. “I see, Professor.”

The dark wizard harrumphed from the other side. “If you’re going to indulge in any further personal questions of that kind, you should consider addressing me differently, Potter. I am not your teacher anymore.”

Harry looked up and met the indecipherable but not entirely dismissive gaze. “Um, what should I call you then, Pro- uh, sir?”

Rolling his eyes, the man weighed the options with deadly calm that crept under Harry’s skin in an odd manner. “’Sir’ seems a bit too formal for our relationship by now, doesn’t it?” He cast him a knowing glance which made Harry frown.

Was Snape referring to the incident in fifth year when he had been a bit brazen with the term? “Sir, I – back then, I wasn’t trying to be impertinent. I –”

“Oh, yes, you were.” This time there was a definite gleam in the man’s eyes and the smallest upturn of one corner of his mouth.

Harry must have fallen down the chair, face first.

Had he– Had he just made Severus Snape _smile_?

No, that _couldn’t_ be.

But... there wasn’t anything malicious about the glint appearing ever so briefly in the former Professor’s dark, glum eyes.

Blinking owlishly, Harry picked up his jaw and he was almost positive this too amused Snape greatly, though his expression was once more obscured by the curtain of lanky hair. Quietly, Harry noticed tiny streaks of grey in all the black and wondered if it felt as course and greasy as it looked, or if it was soft and fine like–

Shaking himself free of this strange train of thought, his eyes caught sight of the clock on the mantelpiece behind Snape’s head, realizing he’d be late to the appointment he had with Ginny. It had taken time and patience, but he had finally been able to catch hold of her in an attempt to appease their broken relationship. He didn’t believe they could repair enough to get back together. In fact, he wasn’t at all sure he was feeling what he once thought he felt for her (with Snape’s account of the difference between friendship and romantic love still fresh in mind). However, he desperately hoped they’d be able to mend their friendship, at least. As much as he wanted to stay and continue his conversation with Snape, considering it had taken a more positive turn, he couldn’t abandon Ginny this time.

“I’m sorry, Pro– I mean, sir, I’m sorry, but I really have to go. I have an appointment with Ginny and I’m already late,” he excused himself and stood. Snape’s head snapped up and for a brief second Harry thought he detected a note of uncertainty in his gaze but it was gone just as quickly again.

“I see,” the wizard noted neutrally and then said no more. Harry shifted on his feet, trying to bridge the awkward atmosphere while making sense of the chaos of confusing feelings roaming within him. He _really_ didn’t want to squander this opportunity with Snape.

“If...” he started and then bit his lip nervously, ending up sticking his hands down his jeans pockets.

“Yes?” Snape drawled, not unkindly.

“Um, I’d like to finish our conversation; I mean, only if you want to? Or we can just to talk or, I don’t know, play chess. I don’t mind. In any case, you can just Owl me... _sir_.” Harry couldn’t help the small smile at their little mutual joke and when he observed Snape’s response, he found himself pleasantly surprised by the fraction of a wry smirk appearing on the man’s thin lips as he ducked his head, a habit of his it seemed.

“Ah. Yes, it would seem fitting then that you call me by my name.” Once again, Snape managed to utterly floor Harry. The reticent man was no less guarded and unreadable, but considering this was still _Snape_ we were talking about, the man demonstrated an unforeseen amount of leniency towards his former object of hatred.

“Uh, so ‘Snape’ then?” Harry put forward tentatively.

Closing his eyes, the raven-haired man quelled any mild irritation towards the boy and concurred as he rose from his chair. “Yes, Potter, that’ll do.”

“Excellent!” Harry felt ecstatic. “And, honestly, you can just call me Harry then, si- I mean, Snape.”

Unsmiling, Snape gave a minuscule nod. “Very well... Harry.”

Harry grinned and turned towards the small entrance hall. Snape followed him out. “Thanks again for the tea. I think it was the best I’d ever had.”

Expelling a low huff, Snape came to a halt and held the front door open. “I _know_ it was,” he retorted flatly like it was a gods-given fact that a Potions Master brewed only the most _perfect_ tea.

Merely grinning again, Harry slipped out of the house and skipped down the steps to the pavement. “See you around, Snape.” He waved an arm above his head; quite sure the dour man had already closed the door behind him as he walked on, head chock-full of new information and even more questions. Oddly, he was already looking forward to the next visit (granted there’d be one, of course. But, oh, he hoped so!).

What Harry missed, distracted as he was, was the fact that the former spy remained standing in the open doorframe, watching the young war hero stroll down Snape’s abandoned childhood lane, filled with so many conflicting memories, and wondering if a streak of light had finally found its way through the smog-filled clouds and shun down on Spinner’s End for the first time since Lily Evans disappeared from his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You’re probably wondering how Snape can perform nonverbal magic when he’s on house arrest with limited magical allowances, but that is as much as it extends to: Daily, domestic household magic of the nonverbal, wandless kind (he’s not allowed a wand yet, of course). I imagine this is something Snape would have no trouble performing being the skilled wizard that he is.  
> Wait, isn’t his house arrest over, you might ask? Yes, almost.
> 
> On a side note: When Harry surmises Snape grew up in a poor home only AFTER he has seen the interior, one is tempted to say ‘No shit, Sherlock!’. But this is Harry, after all, and he can be a bit slow on the uptake sometimes. Hermione would likely have whacked him on the back of his head if she’d heard him.


	2. Chapter 2

The meeting with Ginny had not gone... terrible.

Nor had it gone particularly _well_.

Safe to say, both she and Ron still harboured a tiny resentment towards Harry for going back in time to save _Snape_ , of all people, instead of Fred or Remus or Tonks or any of their other friends. It was partly what had driven Ginny away in the first place, more than a year ago. And it was what made meetings with Ron or any of the Weasleys rather painful and awkward ever since. While Hermione was more sympathetic and Molly and Arthur slowly had begun to come to terms with the fact that Harry would not have been able to be more places at once and save _everybody_ since the unique Time-Turner he’d obtained only worked once, the Weasley children were _less_ understanding. It wasn’t that they didn’t try. They put on a strong face and tried to adapt to this new post-war reality like everybody else; trying to overcome past grievances with former enemies while battling the loss of their brother. But there was a permeating hollow note to their eyes and laughs. It hurt Harry to the very core of his heart how mercurial their moods could be whenever he was within their presence. The reason for their hurt wasn’t solely his fault; _he_ knew it and _they_ knew it. After all, Harry had suffered insurmountable losses too; they had been _his_ friends too. But that didn’t take away the fact that Harry had had the very opportunity to change circumstances in his hands and used it for a man who had scorned and humiliated every Weasley for as long as they could remember, no matter what his motives had been.

Harry tried his best to explain his reasoning and to mend whatever had been broken. He knew it took time, and he knew reaching past Snape’s defences would be a trial too, but if there was _one_ reason for Harry’s own survival it was to treasure the people in his life. To build bridges. In more senses than one. He had even reached out to Draco to try and make peace, but so far it had been unsuccessful.

So, now, he focused his efforts on the raven-haired man in that confined ‘tower of misery’ of his.

But, he wouldn’t push. He had taken the first step, literally across the threshold to something as personal as Snape’s childhood home (honestly, he had never expected to step further than the stairs leading to the front door), and now, all he had to do was _wait_.

And wait.

Which... wasn’t easy.

Harry chewed his lower lip to shreds each time his mail arrived, either at home or through the Auror department. He wasn’t sure how Snape’s owl looked like, imagining an anthropomorphic version of the man himself (silly thought), and he practically scared the poor birds out of their feathers when he sprung to the window and ripped the envelopes from their beaks or claws, a little too eager to view the contents. To see the familiar spiky scrawl of Snape’s distinctive penmanship.

He was never in such luck.

Then again, he didn’t actually think it would be that easy to get into Snape’s good graces, did he? After _one,_ more or less, successful visit?

He was aware that he was acting a little strangely in the eyes of his superiors and fellow Auror trainees, but it hadn’t exactly been news this past year. Being who he was, they didn’t question him and let him be, thank Merlin.

The press _didn’t_ , however. They never did. While they spent most of their time speculating on trivial matters; everything from what size shoes he was wearing to what kind of dates he preferred, they never really hit the nail nor managed to get under his skin. A rather thick skin, by now. For Hermione, it was a different matter. She took it more personally and was fuming every time she Floo’ed him; angrily slamming down the latest Daily Prophet on his desk and raving on about being practically assaulted by Skeeter and her pestering colleagues. Personally, Harry had found that the Invisibility Cloak came in extraordinarily handy in these instances with the press, but it didn’t seem fair to share this with Hermione. Besides, she likely already knew and just needed to vent.

Deliberately, he chose not to fill her in on his little meeting with Snape. Not that he didn’t trust Hermione’s reaction to be reasonable, but he wanted to wait a bit before he told her. At any chance, his wishes wouldn’t come to fruition anyway, given how quiet it had been on the other front. By now, Harry had almost given up.

Then, one day, his misfortune seemed to turn.

There had been rumours and inquiries going round the department in the aftermath of a raid in an alleged hide-out for escaped Death Eaters where several mysterious vials and potions had been discovered and retrieved. Nothing to document what these potions and vials contained and no spell seemed to be able to uncover their purposes either. When Kingsley Shacklebolt offhandedly remarked that he knew only _one_ person who’d be able to decipher their dark intents, Harry clamped down on his need to protest to such blatant insinuations. After all, it was partly true that Snape could prove helpful, given he not only was the most excellent Potions Master there was but also had intimate past experience with the Dark Arts. Besides, _this_ could prove to be the chance Harry had been inadvertently waiting for; a way to contact Snape again, however gloomy the circumstances.

“I’ll do it,” Harry spoke up and the collective pairs of eyes turned to him.

“Harry?” Kingsley inquired, his grave gaze fixed on the Auror trainee.

Harry steeled himself. “I’ll get in contact with Snape to– to see if he is willing to help.”

Surveying the young wizard, Kingsley pursed his lips. “While I greatly appreciate your offer to help, Harry, I’m not sure that is such a good idea. Remember how he feels about you...” The sentence was left hanging but its meaning clear. Everyone in the room implicitly knew of Harry’s prior, failed attempts to mend his rocky relationship with the former spy.

“I know,” Harry quickly replied, turning serious. “I know. But I’m sure I’d be able to convince him. _This time_.” He didn’t mention he had already managed to crack a tiny speck in the veneer of the grouchy wizard.

Kingsley deliberated for a time, then finally relented. “Very well. If you’re sure, Harry?” He ascertained one final time to which Harry firmly nodded, green eyes blazing with the same determination that took down Voldemort. No one dared to argue with that.

 

X

 

Standing in front of the depressive front of Spinner’s End once again, Harry plucked up his courage and knocked on the door. If Snape had seen the note he had sent him beforehand, announcing his arrival, hopefully it wouldn’t go down as a _surprise_ visit.

 _Hopefully_.

It was also very likely the man simply chucked all of Harry’s letters into the fireplace as soon as he saw whom they were from.

The seconds ticked by and felt like minutes. Harry started to fidget, trying to peer inside the dirtied windows for any signs of life... without luck.

Then the handle rattled and the dingy door swung open, revealing his wraith-like former Professor who fixed him with a baleful glare.

_Oh, dear._

“I don’t believe I have invited you, Potter,” came the deep, drawling voice as Snape looked down his hawkish nose at him. Harry gulped. This was _not_ the Snape he had left several weeks ago.

“I sent a letter informing you this morning. Have- have you not seen it?”

The man’s thin upper lip curled. “I have not. I find your infernal, nattering inquiries to my health and welfare to be quite exasperating, so I have chosen to forego opening your letters, knowing by now they don’t contain anything of importance.”

Harry winced; his callous words struck home. “I see. Um, well, I wrote, or, I mean,” Harry scratched his neck nervously, _where did all my courage go_ , “I _came_ here because there’s been a case opening in the Auror department and –” Harry paused. “Could we possibly go inside? I don’t very much like to discuss this out here.”

Snape didn’t move an inch and merely raised a sardonic eyebrow. “You believe ‘the good people’ of Cokeworth to be particularly distrustful since you cannot convey your piddling concerns – whatever they have to do with me – outside?”

Harry couldn’t help scowling a bit. Merlin, this man could be stubborn sometimes. “If you’d _please_ , Snape –”

“You expect me to simply let you in now, _boy_ , because I was foolish enough to do so last time?” Harry flinched as he stared at the simmering man, looming over him. “You must think me particularly susceptible to your uncouth charms, Potter, or you haven’t learned _a thing_!”

The door was already swinging shut and, this time, when Harry jolted into gear to try and prevent Snape from shutting him out again, some sort of mild Stinging Hex coursed through his hand the minute it touched the wooden surface, making him yelp and immediately retract it. Nursing his stung extremity, Harry looked perturbed at the closed door and felt, frankly, a bit hurt by the man’s obstinate refusal to see him. Weren’t they making progress last time? Had something happened in-between to make Snape change his mind?

“ _Please_ , sir,” Harry begged quietly through the door, hoping Snape could still hear him. “I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t important. I won’t impose on you anymore than necessary. I only came to seek your guidance on an urgent matter that has come up in the Auror department. Please, sir. We cannot do this without you.”

Harry held his breath, stepped back and counted: _One, two, three, come on, Snape, come on, I’ve already resorted to begging, four, five, six, seven, please, open the door, please, don’t shut me out, eight, nine, ten –_

Harry’s heart soared when he heard the telltale rattle of the door slowly opening and saw the sallow face peer out through the lanky curtain of hair. The black gaze pierced through him. “Say what you came to say, Potter, and be quick about it.”

Expelling the sigh he had been holding, Harry ducked his head and quickly relayed the purpose of his visit.

Snape sent him a look that could peel off paint, huffing through his nostrils. “I fail to see how any Ministry business could ever _possibly_ concern me,” Harry deflated a bit at the scathing tone, “but, given my servitude, I suppose I must make myself available, however much I loathe it.”

Blinking, Harry saw the door swing fully open to allow him inside and he had to stop himself from dropping his jaw at the man’s sudden turnabout.

“I, er, thank you, sir,” he stuttered automatically and stepped past his former Professor into the house. Snape merely sneered and closed the door vehemently behind him before pivoting on his heel and stalking into the living room, billowing ropes and all. For a man as physically frail as Snape, he sure put a lot of energy into reinforcing the illusion of his old persona.

Gingerly, Harry trailed behind and paused in the middle of the stuffy sitting room. The dark wizard was already perusing some of his bookshelves, doing a quick inventory. He turned half-ways towards Harry. “I seem to have misplaced the book that I’m looking for,” he groused, likely irritated that he wasn’t able to summon the item. “I’ll conduct my search upstairs. Meanwhile, stay here and _do not touch a single thing_. Do you hear me, Potter?” His vitriolic glare intensified.

Gobsmacked by the rebuke ( _does he still think I’m some kind of meddling eleven-year-old?_ ), Harry pursed his lips and stuck his hands in his jeans pockets. The rough hem of his jeans caught the sore surface of his hand where the hex had grazed him and he held back a flinch, quickly covering by giving a sullen nod in agreement. He hated how Snape _made_ him feel like an eleven-year-old again. It was the very last thing he wanted to appear as; a child, not to be taken seriously, instead of the adult he felt he had become.

Scrutinizing the bespectacled Auror trainee a moment longer, Snape turned and strode towards the stairs to the second-floor. Once he was gone, Harry relaxed his shoulders a tad and allowed himself a glance around the room. Everything looked pretty much the same since he was last here. The portraits of Snape’s parents were still watching him with eerily familiar expressions. He shook himself of the feeling and kept scanning the place. His former Professor had clearly been reading in his chair when Harry had come knocking: an open book and a cup of still hot tea were sitting on the table by the fireplace.

Unable to quench his curiosity, Harry moved closer. It was a rather tatty, bent book that looked like it had been kept in someone’s inner pocket for decades; its pages touched and turned many times. It surprised Harry to see the title at the top of the marked page read _The Letters of Virginia Woolf_. Strange that a Muggle book like this should be in Snape’s possession and, apparently, so _treasured_ possession.

Skimming the first pair of lines, his eyes soon fastened on the words of the letter, engrossed in the tragic beauty they invoked:

_“Dearest,_

_I feel certain I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don’t think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can’t fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can’t even write this properly. I can’t read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that — everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer._

_I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been.”_

Realizing he was reading the author’s suicide letter, he felt a sinking swoop in his stomach and quickly drew back, as if he had just peered into Snape’s private bedroom.

What did it mean; that this particular letter was marked? And where did the book come from? Just any old Muggle second-hand bookshop? Somehow it looked _too_ personal, _too_ treasured for something like that.

Snape’s mother perhaps? Glancing up at the forbidding portrait of the woman on his left, she was staring silently down at him with that desolate expression of hers. Without knowing the woman, it did not seem _unimaginable_ that she would have possessed such an item; he certainly didn’t believe it came from the father (one glance in his direction was sufficient to dispel that theory). Yet, given her charmed silence, he couldn’t very well ask her portrait, could he now?

Harry exhaled as if a heavy bout of air had settled on chest, pressing inwards.

“Satisfied your curiosity yet, _Mister_ Potter?” Harry jumped where he stood and spun around to see the intimidating wizard crowding the door, despite his scrawny frame, with a book clasped in his long, fine-boned hand.

“Sorry, I- I didn’t mean to–”

Snape cut him off as he moved into the room. “You haven’t changed your habitual inclination to pry into matters that is none of your concern. Still favour your father in that regard, it seems.”

Clenching his teeth, Harry tried to temper his rising anger. “I am _not_ my father.”

“Indeed,” the man responded drolly, having expected the reply. Surprisingly. Harry had always been quick to defend his father against the man’s insults in the past but with recent knowledge in mind, he had a harder time comparing himself to his father. There were still too many conflicting emotions linked to what he now knew had transpired between his parents and Snape.

Taking a couple of steadying breaths, Harry filed away his questions about this and the book by the chair and observed Snape move about the room, pulling out more books from the shelves and setting them aside. He demonstratively ignored Harry’s presence but the young wizard had been used to that treatment all through school and it didn’t bother him as much as it used to.

Finally, Snape turned with a collected stack of old tomes and regarded him with an impassive expression in his cold, hard eyes. “This is what I could find on the subject within my own private holdings, but I believe it will suffice.” He waited, apparently expecting Harry to simply take the books and be off to start his own research on a topic he had no knowledge of or idea where to begin.

 _Who am I? Hermione?_ “Um, Sn- sir?”

A thin, black eyebrow was raised in response. “ _Yes_ , Potter?”

“I don’t believe it _will_ suffice, actually.”

“Indeed?” Snape drawled.

“No, I mean, I appreciate the effort and I believe you have all the,” he gestured towards the tomes in Snape’s hands, “necessary material to conduct a thorough study, but you haven’t actually told me whether or not you _know_ what problem to search for is, yet. That was sort of why I came to you, in the first place...to ask you?” _Godric_ , he really knew how to put a foot in it, didn’t he?

Snape sent him an unimpressed look. “Why am I not surprised your incapability to research on your own has not improved either?” he retorted, and Harry opened his mouth as if to protest the utterly rhetorical statement. Huffing impatiently, the man glowered and bit out. “Very well.” He moved quickly across the room and laid out the books across a plain desk in the corner of the sitting room. It was nowhere near the size or the quality that should serve a Potions Master of his calibre and Harry briefly wondered if there was a basement connected to the house where Snape kept most of his personal potions kit and ingredients.

In a flurry, Snape sat down and pulled out paper and a quill and started writing with swift, precise movements. It proved to be more than just a simple note, but Harry patiently stood by, unwittingly entranced by the elegant hand clasping the quill as it moved across the paper.

“There.” The man curtly dotted the final line and held out the paper to him. “It states my theory and what to look for in the books. I believe this _will_ be more than enough. I can’t very well do _all_ your work, can I now?”

“No, of course not, sir. Thank you again,” Harry replied meekly and stepped forward to grasp the still-drying parchment.

Snape grunted something that sounded vaguely like, “You’re welcome,” under his breath but he could be mistaken. Blinking, Harry gauged the man once more, trying to read his mood. He had to get used to this odd behaviour if he was to reach behind his hard-shell defences, hadn’t he?

Noticing he was being scrutinized, Snape steepled his fingers to rest his chin against and squinted up at Harry, patience stretched thin. “Yes? Something else on your mind?”

Fidgeting, Harry bit his lip, knowing this wasn’t the ideal time but he wasn’t sure he was ever allowed back into Snape’s home after this. _So._ _Here goes_. “Actually, I was hoping we would meet again – under different circumstances, of course...”

“ _Of course_ ,” the dour man sniped, unmoved.

Pursing his lips, Harry carried on. “I am very glad you are willing to help us in this matter, but I truly wanted to see you as well, since, um, you haven’t been responding or even reading any of my letters, and I was wondering if I have done something in particular to displease you?”

“And why do you presume that you have done something to displease me, Mr. Potter, simply because I do not reply to your letters?” Snape asked coldly and the words chilled Harry right to his bones. He had been so hopeful when Snape conceded to a more informal territory in their new-forming relationship (alright, call him unreasonably optimistic). Now, it felt like they were back at square one; as if they were still at school and Snape was still his teacher, demanding only the _right_ answer to one his cryptic questions.

“I- I don’t know, si- I, _please_ , can we go back to addressing each other like when we last parted?” He didn’t miss the small twitch of displeasure by the corner of the man’s mouth.

“I fail to see why that should make a difference, Potter. You’ll be out of here sooner or later, I imagine, once you’ve found peace of mind.”

Frowning at the man’s puzzling delivery, Harry hazarded a guess that Snape still clung to the misconstrued idea that his visits were some sort of attempt to ease his own guilty mind. “No.” He shook his head vehemently and dared leaning forward, hands splayed on the desk, uncaring of the paper crumpling in his hand. He stared determinedly at his former Professor across from him. “No. Once again, you’ve got it all wrong, Snape.” The man’s thin nostrils flared but Harry didn’t care about walking on eggshells around him right now. “This,” he held up the creased parchment, “was just my excuse! I _wanted_ to come here because I wanted to know how you have been doing. I _wanted_ to see you. I–” he floundered, suddenly unsure what to say to truly convince the man of his genuine intent.

Snape’s pinched expression had morphed into one of surprise but quickly transformed back into his sneering mask and his eyes darted away before Harry could see the emotion belying them. “If you _must_.”

Harry picked up the hesitance beneath the harshness of the words and drew back with a small sigh.

“I was and _am_ not trying to pressure you into anything, Snape,” he spoke calmly. “If you truly do not wish me to visit while you are confined here, I will desist. I had only hoped to pull you out of your shell, to provide some company in any way I can, knowing how miserable and lonely it must be to be here.”

Snape’s head snapped up, his onyx eyes blazing dangerously. “Do _not_ presume you know what my life is like, Potter!” Harry reared back from the sudden force of his anger. “I was not supposed to be here in the first place!” Thinking he meant he was supposed to go free, Harry was about to open his mouth to apologize but was immediately cut off. “I was not supposed to _live_ beyond this point! And yet, you – _you_ had to tamper with time, you _foolish_ boy, and bring me back _just_ so you could ease you guilty conscience!”

The words dropped like shards of ice in Harry’s stomach and he swallowed thickly as he stared, stricken, at the man. Snape was sitting rigidly in his chair, his thin chest heaving and one hand fisted on the surface of the desk. Instinctively, Harry wanted to reach out and soothe the coiled muscles of his arm, but he immediately knew that would be the wrong move. Wetting his lips, he instead tried to come up with some reassuring words that could dispel these brutal notions, but he hardly had the words to calm his own mind.

_What have I done?_

_What. Have. I. Done?_

Snape _never_ thought to live beyond this point... Maybe he never _wanted_ to? He had really expected to die in that horrid shack, cold and alone and in unbearable pain; ‘deserving’ of his own misguided sense of ‘rightful’ punishment.

And now, Harry had brought him back to a life in bleak confinement and misery of his childhood home; a once proud, formidable wizard at the beck and call of everyone who had ever let him down, begging for scraps of mercy, never hoping for forgiveness for the things he had done, despite everything. Despite saving them _all_.

He could see now what Snape thought of Harry turning up here; how it looked to a man like him who had never had anyone come to him willingly and with no hidden agenda behind every word of affected kindness. How difficult it was for him to simply _trust_ in the goodness of his fellow man. And, perhaps, especially Harry, given how much of a painful reminder he was of James and Lily.

Harry had carried an idealistic hope that Snape would slowly regain that trust once he saw Harry’s forgiveness and attempts of reconciliation.

Now, that hope had shattered; broken into pieces in his chest. How was he ever to rebuild that kind of trust?

“I – I...” Harry stuttered, helplessly out of depth. He felt his tongue thickening in his throat and cursed himself for feeling so weak. “I’ll get out of your hair, sir,” he managed to force out before he quickly turned and walked out of the sitting room and out the front door. As he scurried down the depressive road, he felt fat tears starting to form in the corner of his eyes and he angrily swiped them away under his glasses.

Idiot.

Idiot.

Idiot!

 _What have I_ _done_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit angsty, I know, but Snarky-Defensive-Distrustful Snape is still, well... snarky, defensive and distrustful. Don't worry, it'll turn around pretty soon, because hey, didn't Harry leave without any of the items that should help the case at the Auror department? Sure did. Maybe there's an olive branch somewhere still ;)


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning a thick parcel arrived to the Auror department. Harry’s heart immediately leapt in his chest when he recognized the distinctive handwriting on top of it.

“Good gracious, Mr. Potter!” Secretary Parsons eyed the parcel above the rim of her bright-red reading glasses. “I hope you’re not expecting this to be a post office for your monthly book orders,” she remarked snippily but Harry ignored her, too overjoyed by the notion that he had received something from Snape.

“No. This is highly unique,” he muttered more to himself; eyes fixed on the spiky words spelling out his name on the yellowy packaging. The secretary sniffed, bemused.

He carried the parcel to his desk and opened it, more or less expectant of its contents (he had belatedly remembered about the books when he had fled Snape’s house yesterday and couldn’t bring himself to go back and ask. _Coward_ ). Secretly, he hoped there’d be something more; a letter or even the smallest of notes to let him know that Snape was not entirely unforgiving of him. Or simply to dispel any of the morose notions he had carried since yesterday about his doomed relationship with the man.

Indeed, the parcel contained all of the books that Snape had been willing to lend him, as well as the parchment relaying his theory of the case. Or _no_ , this was a _new_ parchment. This one wasn’t crumpled. Turning it over in his hand, Harry skimmed it eagerly, yet spotted nothing out of the ordinary or addressed to him specifically. With a disappointed sigh, he slumped back into his chair, gazing at the familiar scrawl of his former Professor’s hand, trying to imagine how he had written it: Angrily? Impatiently? Indifferently? ...Hurt?

The thought was almost more than he could bear. Pushing himself up and straightening his spine, he pressed his lips together, frowning down at all the research material. He couldn’t claim he lacked something new to distract himself with meanwhile.

The packaging was snatched from his desk. “Ugh. _Snape_.” Auror trainee McNeill had appeared before him and grimaced at the return address. “What has that aggravating old sod done now?” Harry snatched it back from the brawny trainee’s loose grip, a bit aggressively. He never particularly liked McNeill’s manners though he dutifully respected his soon-to-be colleague. Still, he hated when people talked about Snape that way, especially when they didn’t know him – and even people who _did_ know him seldomly had anything positive to say.

“Nothing,” Harry groused as he turned his nose back into the books, signalling he wanted to be left to his work. McNeill didn’t budge however. Particularly not once he got wind of something.

Leaning casually against the desk, McNeill folded his massive arms. “I know you’ve been trying to reach him, Potter,” he stated matter-of-factly, deceptively so. “Didn’t think it was _this_ important.”

“And what’s it to you?” Harry tried hard not to snap but he really didn’t have the patience for McNeill’s antics this morning.

The other trainee held up his big hands. “Hey, none of my business, you know. I was just wondering.”

“Sure you were,” Harry mumbled under his breath and returned to his work. From the corner of his eye, he could still see McNeill’s jeans-clad hips resting against the edge of his office desk, and he bit down on the inside of his cheek from wanting to tell the guy off. Couldn’t he take a bloody hint?

“You know, Potter,” McNeill began, and Harry silently simmered at the insinuation in his tone, “one would think your interest in the ugly codger is more than just professional.”

Refusing to rise to his bait, Harry focused in on the first five sentences he had been reading for the last minute. “Oh? You mean personal?” His voice could only be described as arctic, liking to believe he had picked it up from Snape at some point. Yet, it didn’t throw off McNeill who merely snorted.

“Yeah. You could say that.” Harry sensed him leaning closer. “But what I don’t understand is _why_ , Potter? The man is a recluse, a washed-up wizard. For Merlin’s sake, he’s an Ex-Death Eater!” he hissed in disgust, as if that was enough to sway Harry.

Harry curled his hand tight around the pen he was holding, still not deigning the other bloke a look. “I disagree, McNeill. Severus Snape is a formidable wizard, more than you or I will ever be. I have every faith he will receive the recognition he deserves for what he has done for _us all_.”

Appearing sceptic, McNeill countered. “Oh, so you have forgiven him already? For fucking up kids’ minds? For being a right _bastard_?”

Harry pinched his eyes close. “Yes, I have forgiven him. Whatever transgressions he did, he did under Voldemort’s reign.”

There was another disbelieving snort on his right, and Harry felt close to socking him. “Right. Keep telling yourself that, Potter. From what _I’ve_ heard, he was sadistic to a fault, with no possible excuse. I wouldn’t be so lenient with the praise, if I were you.”

Harry slammed down a hand, rousing the attention of the surrounding trainees at their desks. “Well, you’re _not_ me, are you, McNeill? So, if you could keep your commentary to yourself...” He wasn’t about to ask nicely.

McNeill blinked, more bemused than stunned. “Alright. Have it your way, Potter.” He loosened his arms and leaned away from Harry’s desk, then stepped away. “After all, you’re royalty around here, and I wouldn’t want to mess with the bosses if I happened to say the wrong thing.”

His words managed to only aggravate Harry even more. He had witnessed McNeill do these shifts more than once; casually referring to Harry as the ‘Go-To-Hero’ or ‘Wonder Boy’ without a hint of mockery, and then suddenly turn it around and use it against him, making Harry feel almost _dirty_ by being in the department. After all, he hadn’t even finished school before Kingsley had recruited him for the Auror training programme. Even McGonagall had allowed it, signing away a special diploma to him before the end of the year. These were his ‘only’ credits besides well, prior, unwanted experience with Dark Wizards and Witches.

He got why some of the other trainees looked askance at him sometimes, though they all behaved professionally about it. Still, Harry couldn’t help pick up on the tense atmosphere whenever Kingsley would come by the department to talk specifically to Harry or asked him to his office. It didn’t happen as often as people would think and Kingsley never displayed any outrageous favouritism as many other Ministry members tended to do when they met Harry in the halls. Harry was rather split about the Minister’s treatment of him; on the one hand, grateful for Kingsley’s unchanged behaviour (he had never acted as if Harry was this miracle saviour to be fawned over) and, on the other hand, wondering if he preferred that Kingsley _didn’t_ pulled him aside, so he’d escape the covert looks from his fellow trainees.

Sighing, he pulled off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. He hadn’t slept a wink last night, a restless hour at the most; his head filled with the angry visage of Snape as the dark wizard raged about his reluctance to even be _alive_!

It was possible to interpret the parcel as an olive branch, but he wasn’t about to push his luck this time. He hadn’t exactly been asked to come and retrieve the items in person, had he? No, that would be too much to hope for.

Picking up the packaging, Harry cast one last remorseful glance at it before chucking it out the bin. There was a tiny, dump sound beside it and he looked down to see a small roll of sealed parchment lying on the floor.

Could that be...?

Bending over, he retrieved the scroll and sat back, staring at it, heart in his throat. With hesitant fingers he broke the seal and keenly skimmed the lines, written in the same steady, elegant hand as the other parchment:

_“Potter,_

_No doubt you have received the parcel by now, containing everything you left behind in your rush to leave Spinner’s End. On that note, I do not think I need to stress the importance that these items are on loan and must be delivered in the same number and conditions as they came in. I also require that the subject of this case must be kept confidential as well as the Auror department’s association with myself. This is, of course, presumed to be a requisite within your workplace, yet I have never experienced any proclaimed fail-safe system to be completely fail-safe – for that very reason. Thus I entrust this matter and these items into your hands in the unanimous agreement to never disclose this to anyone outside of those in the know, and not even then, if it can be helped. I hope we understand each other._

_SS.”_

Once finished, Harry simply sat there for a moment, trying to absorb the words.

Then he read them again.

And again.

He kept going over the words, hoping to find some kind of double-meaning in them. Or maybe it was simply Snape being his usual sardonic, curt self. If one wanted to, you could surely find a passive-aggressive undertone there somewhere. It wasn’t... angry. Nor spiteful. Nor _anything_ really; simply written in the same jargon one used when entrusting a secret to a confidential colleague. Impersonally personal. Still, Harry couldn’t help clinging to the tender hope that Snape _could_ mean something else with the words. That his trust implicitly paved the way for a reconciliation along the line. Eventually. _Hell_ , all he had right now was hope.

Leaning back, Harry called out to the other Auror trainee assigned the case, sitting a couple of desks away from him. Patrick Emmett was only two years older than Harry and luckily Harry got along well with him. The other wizard was somewhat precocious of nature; he observed everything with a studious mien and would pause lengthily to give considered, proficient answers; a quality Harry appreciated in his colleague. He needed someone with the head in the right place; not likely prone to get distracted or swayed by personal feelings. Harry had once asked if Patrick had attended Ravenclaw; he couldn’t remember seeing him there, but Patrick had simply shaken his head and said something about a private school in Switzerland, paid by his father. He didn’t appear to carry any fond memories of the place, but the little Harry had been able to pick up about his background, Patrick did not carry particular warm feelings towards Emmett Sr. either, who was a wealthy, prominent Muggle business man and absent figure in his childhood. Perhaps that was why they hit it off so quickly.

Holding out an arm, Harry handed Patrick Snape’s first parchment, the theory regarding the case. He knew he didn’t have to explain; Patrick read everything Harry stuck in his hands. Quickly scanning the lines, the other wizard’s brow furrowed and drew a chair near to sit down, leaning forward on his long legs. Harry observed his look of concentration, guessing this was not something he had come across before. With a contemplative sigh, Patrick leaned back in his chair before fastening his eyes on Harry over the top of the paper. “And this is legit?” he posed neutrally and Harry took no offense to the question. Patrick took very little interest in public figures and though he had heard of Severus Snape, he had formed no opinion on the man. He trusted those he knew, and he trusted Harry, who nodded in return. Convinced, Patrick hummed and tracked a couple of lines again, deep in thought. “It seems we have our work cut out for us.”

Harry responded with a hum of his own and spun a bit in his chair, eyeing the stack of books filling his work desk. _It sure does_.

 

X

 

When Harry finally showed up at Snape’s doorstep a month later with the borrowed books secured under one arm, it was not without a couple of additional bumps and bruises to his individual.

After a thorough research into the case material – including some _very_ long working hours at the Auror office – he and Patrick had been able to track down one of the affiliate culprits who sold banned potions ingredients on the black market. They monitored him and finally caught him red-handed, handing out the same sort of vials which had been found during the raid. A smaller fight had ensued throughout Knockturn Alley with said culprit’s chums suddenly showing up in renegade Death Eater masks and giving the two Auror rookies a run for their money. While the guilty party managed to get away, Harry and Patrick still had the name and face of the black market seller and could safely report the name back to their superiors which then led to a wider manhunt, headed by fully-trained Aurors this time. The search proved productive and almost everyone believed to be involved with the illegal potions were caught and brought in.

The team was praised by the Minister himself; trainees as well as Aurors. _And all thanks to Snape, in the first place,_ Harry thought. _Without his initial help, pointing us in the right direction, we wouldn’t have made it._ He didn’t say this out loud, given the confidentiality entrusted to him by the man himself, but had, afterwards, privately suggested to Kingsley that he would like to return the books to their owner in person and thank him for his help. Kingsley had agreed with less apprehension than usual, likely because he was in a good mood on top of a successful case.

So, once again, Harry found himself standing in front of Spinner’s End. It was getting dark and everything was quiet as the grave. Only the sparse light from inside the house alerted Harry to the owner’s presence. He _had_ sent another letter this time around to give the man a heads-up, knowing full well the chance that he had read it was significantly little.

Expelling a small sigh, Harry grabbed better hold of the books under his arm (he refrained from visibly using magic in this neighbourhood) and lifted the other hand to knock on the door.

It opened almost immediately, surprising Harry.

“ _Potter_.” Snape was hovering in the doorway like a wiry bat that had gotten its wings clipped and no less emaciated to look upon. There was a trace of a sneer in his intonation (not that Harry had expected any other kind of greeting).

“Snape.” He nodded briefly, and for a while they simply stared at each other in strained silence.

Then Snape moved back, opening the door an inch wider, and did the tiniest of gesture with his pale hand that led Harry know he was invited inside. Still not taking his eyes off the piercing black orbs in front of him, he moved gingerly up the stairs and passed the wizard who tracked him with a sharp glare.

Closing the door behind him, less vehemently than last time, Snape once again took his time to simply scrutinize Harry with that unnerving dark gaze of his.

Harry was very much aware that he wasn’t looking his best; his eyes were bloodshot, hair was a mess (and that was saying something) and dark circles lingered under his eyes. Biting his lip, unable to hold the man’s gaze for long, he started fiddling with the books in his hands. Snape’s eyes dropped to the items and raised a pointed eyebrow.

“Since you are here, I gather my books have served their purpose and hopefully remain in the same condition as they came in,” he remarked in aloof disparagement before his tone became positively glacial. “Not that I believe I explicitly stated anywhere in my letter that I expected them to be returned _in person_.”

Harry swallowed. _Oh, shite_. “I- I know. I just thought...”

“Yes?”

“Well, when you wrote you entrusted them to me, I thought I should be the one to give them back to you, since you can’t receive parcels by owl...” Harry hedged, feeling utterly unbalanced by the man’s penetrating gaze.

“Hm.” Snape seemed to deliberate and for a brief minute Harry worried that he was going to be sent packing again. Snape’s impassive mask gave nothing away. Then he held out his long, slender hands for Harry to hand over the tomes. He did so clumsily and Snape merely huffed in annoyance and snatched them from his grip before carrying them inside the sitting room. Harry remained where he was, anxiously waiting for Snape to return and show him the door.

It never happened.

“Do you plan to loiter in hallways all your life, Potter?” the sharp voice rung from inside. “If you have _any_ plan to become a more vigilant Auror in the future, I would suggest you step up and show some initiative!”

It jolted Harry into gear, stunned and somewhat piqued at the condescending tone, and he sidled into the sitting room where Snape had taken seat by his desk, meticulously filing away the accounted list of books that had been returned.

“I see that everything is in order,” Snape informed him, deceptively neutral; he had clearly expected the opposite. Looking up, the dark wizard regarded him with a cool glance. “And the case is now concluded?”

“Er, yes,” Harry replied, not sure how to handle this new atmosphere. It felt they were engaged in a business transaction. “We managed to find one or two of the culprits after, ah, a bit of skirmish,” he blabbered nervously.

“Indeed?” With an arch of his eyebrow, the dark man seemed to take stock of his being. Harry flushed a bit.

“All thanks to you,” he was quick to interject and saw Snape shoot him a disbelieving look.

“I doubt it,” he countered in an impervious drawl and turned his eyes back to the parchments on his desk.

“No, but, sir–” Harry stepped forward. “ _Snape_... you _did_.” His emphatic tone must have caught some snippet of Snape’s attention because he seemed to regard the items on his desk absentmindedly. “It was thanks to _you_ ; pointing us in the right direction and giving us the material to help look up the ingredients that were being sold and used illegally that we were able to find out who was selling them.”

Snape hadn’t lifted his head and the black curtain of hair obscured the side of his face. “You have an infallible way of looking at things in a roundabout way, boy,” he retorted dismissively, starting to stack the books in order. “I believe you would have been perfectly capable of finding all that out on your own in due course.”

Harry wasn’t sure if he should take it as a compliment or if Snape was merely downplaying his own hand in their success.

Suddenly finding himself leaning on the desk once more in his desperation to make Snape see sense, he drew slightly back, afraid to upset the prickly man again. “I don’t believe so,” he spoke softly. “We couldn’t have done it in such a short time without your guidance, Snape.”

The older wizard’s movements around his desk stilled altogether for the briefest of seconds as he seemed to digest the words, then emitted a non-committal noise in the back of his throat.

“In any case...” Harry hesitated, unable to read the man’s mood. “I just wanted to return your books in person and to thank you for your help.”

When Snape remained unresponsive, Harry moved back and turned away, resigned that that was all he was going to get. He had momentarily forgotten about the presence of Snape's large leather chair close behind him and bumped his bruised side into the hard back. Wincing, he hunched slightly over, his hand instinctively coming up to nurse the place where a nasty curse had grazed him during the skirmish in Knockturn Alley. At the time, he hadn’t made note of it, given the adrenaline coursing through his body, and when he briefly checked it afterwards, there was nothing particularly critical to see, only a large red mark which left him a bit sore around the ribs.

“Potter?” Snape’s voice reverberated behind him.

“Mmph _._ ” Apparently he had gotten the air knocked out of him as well. _Huh. Maybe not so inconsequential, after all._ He breathed unsteadily. “Sorry, I... seem to have–”

A hand on his arm stilled his attempts to speak. His head whipped up in complete surprise to see his severe former Professor suddenly having materialized beside him.

“Whatever have you gotten yourself into, boy?” Snape censured under his breath, his touch firm but not unkind as he started to lead Harry across the room and into the kitchen. Harry blinked owlishly but quietly followed.

He was deposited into a wobbly chair by a small table, reflexively keeping his hand pressed into his side and watched the willowy man turn to the kitchen cupboards and open them, revealing mostly bottles of potions and kettles. _Ah, so this is where he hides all his gear,_ Harry absentmindedly mused. The wizard deftly pulled out one or two potions and put them aside along with a couple of other items, then turned briskly to face Harry again.

“Lift up your shirt.”

Harry froze, looking wide-eyed up at the unimpressed man looming over him. “Er, _what_?”

Rolling his eyes, Snape repeated in a tone that brooked no excuses. “If you know what’s best for you, Potter, you’ll do as I say,” the deep voice resonated in the small, squalid kitchen.

Staring dumbly at the man, Harry closed his mouth; quite sure his brain had short-circuited. “Uh –”

Heaving an impatient sigh, Snape regarded him with pursed lips, eerily reminding Harry of Madam Pomfrey. “I gather your ‘minor skirmish’ with said perpetrators proved more challenging than anticipated and from your gait up the stairs I assume you carry more bruises.”

Suddenly feeling quite self-conscious, Harry flinched as if to cover himself from the assessing stare. He wasn’t quite ready to let Snape play nurse-maid to his battered body. “Um... I ...”

“I’d be _quite_ happy to alert St. Mungo’s _or_ your superiors to let them know of any work-related injuries–”

“N-no!” Harry blurted out, cutting off the droning voice. Between Snape and the press getting wind of his milder injuries (which they no doubt would once he had been admitted to St. Mungo’s), he preferred Snape. Closing his eyes shut, he gritted his teeth and finally relented. “ _Fine_.” Warily, he lifted the side of his shirt to reveal the gash on his left side. He peered up beneath his lashes to watch Snape inspecting the laceration. Seeing his brow furrow in contemplation, Harry worried his lip. _Is it that bad?_ He hadn’t noticed anything before now. _Why now?_

“Stand up.” Harry was pulled out of his thoughts at the clinical tone of command in the man’s voice. Snape momentarily turned away as Harry stood, still holding up his shirt, and returned with what looked liked regular disinfectant on a roll of cotton. Harry hissed slightly at the light daps against the chafed skin. “You should count yourself lucky it is but a graze and not a direct hit.” He trembled ever so lightly at the sensation of the man’s warm breath ghosting close to his exposed skin. Snape continued, unaffected, as he applied some burn-healing paste to the edges of the gash. “Still, something like this should not be left unattended. You do well to remember that; in your future profession it will prove pivotal. I did not go through all this in order to save your pitiful life just to see you get yourself foolishly killed.” The words could have been mistaken for a show of concern if they had not been delivered in that biting tone. Harry made a disgruntled noise and squirmed a bit as Snape proceeded to bandage the cleaned area. “Be still, Potter.”

“I _am_ ,” he grumbled, unable to help himself, and immediately regretted it. He hung his head. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to sound ungrateful...” He peered over to the bent head of his former Professor, eyes tracing the lanky, midnight-coloured locks hiding his gaunt face. “You really didn’t have to do this. I’m sure it’s nothing mu–”

Snape mumbled something about ‘impetuous fools’ and straightened to fix Harry with a thunderous expression. “And that is exactly what led you to this predicament, in the first place, Potter!” He was so close, Harry had to lean back. “What do you think would have happened if you had continued to ignore it, hm? It was close to become infected because of your harebrained carelessness!”

Chastised, Harry shrank back. He could see the seriousness in Snape’s face, yet hadn’t quite realized how critical his injury had started to become. “I – I am sorry; I promise I won’t be so careless next time.”

Growling lowly, Snape’s expression hardened as if to stifle a protest and Harry frowned at the conflicted emotion he found there. Before he could read anything more into it, Snape spun around and swept up the used remedies and unused potions and placed them back into their right places in the cupboards. Carefully rolling down his shirt, Harry watched the swift movements of his former Professor as he finished cleaning up before the man disappeared out the kitchen in a billow of black ropes. Harry trailed gingerly behind and swallowed thickly, feeling his stomach drop in disappointment, when he saw him standing statuesquely at the other end of the entry hall, front door opened in a white-knuckled grip.

With a heavy sigh, Harry stepped up to him, surreptitiously trying to decipher his hard-bitten mask but Snape seemed adamant to drill two holes into the tapestry on the opposite wall rather than looking at him.

He paused for a moment, wanting to say something, _anything_ to get Snape to give him a sign. “I... ” He cringed, then took a deep breath and steeled himself, looking straight at the immovably man. “Thank you, Snape. For – _everything_ ,” he breathed out and saw Snape steal the briefest glance in his direction before fixing his eyes on the tapestry once more, a dismissive sound in his throat.

“Just make sure it won’t happen again.”

Flummoxed, Harry wondered if he was referring to the injury or him coming here, again. “Uh, right... I’ll be more careful in the future.” He side-eyed the staunch man. Was this _it_? ‘Goodbye and farewell’ for good? Damn his own stubborn head, but he couldn’t just give up now. “I hope you know that any contribution from your side will be greatly appreciated in the future,” he tried sounding casual, _professional_ , though it wasn’t that convincing, “even if the others at the department aren’t so forthcoming at the moment. _I_ will certainly appreciate it.” Snape’s eyes swivelled back to him again, brow raised. “I mean...uh, if it’ll make the cases be solved more quickly, then...” Harry shifted on his feet.

“Well, then, _Potter_.” Harry flinched at the tone of his voice. “I shall endeavour to put myself at most use for your evident _satisfaction_.”

Harry was stupefied. “I meant no offense. _Really_ ,” he all but pleaded. _Don’t ruin this. Don’t fuck this up_. “I wasn’t trying to insinuate– I’m only immensely grateful for your help and, well, happy to be back here, to be honest.” He smiled timidly. He _meant_ it.

A tiny crack surfaced in the man’s stony features, yet he quickly glossed it over with a concentrated scowl. “Do not think I do not know that you are wilfully using your work as an excuse to drop by on these uninvited visits and then use _me_ as a way to ease your workload. Killing two birds with one stone, hm?” He threw him a mocking glance. “Your ingratiating ways lack finesse, Potter. You are too transparent.”

 _Boy, is this man relentless!_ Harry silently groused but refrained from rising to his bait. He knew Snape was only being his prickly and defensive self, but he certainly managed to tax one’s patience. With a resigned sigh, he drove a hand through his hair and turned towards the door opening again.

“I get it. I _have_ used the Ministry case as an excuse to contact you, Snape. But I truly wanted your help because I know how clever you are,” he ignored the snort on his left, “and I had no hidden agenda besides wanting to see you. But I get you feel manipulated somehow. It was never my intention –”

“For me to find out?” Snape interjected haughtily.

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” Harry gestured in frustration. “I _just_ wanted to see you. How hard is it for you to understand?!”

Snape observed him contemplatively, for once appearing to take in his sincerity. He spoke up after what seemed an eternity. “I guess I am not used to such displays of... altruism.” The words were forced out in a cavalier fashion but the brief hesitance belied his hard-shelled facade.

Harry would have snorted at his phrasing but he didn’t want to argue with him. For a moment, they simply gazed at each other, the earlier tension abated and replaced by something new.

“So...” Harry started to get uncomfortable. “Am I banned for good this time? Or will you allow me to come and visit you at _your_ convenience?” He shot him a nervous smile.

Snape narrowed his eyes but this time his gaze bore less bite. “Hmph. Don’t suppose I can stop you from inviting yourself.”

Wide-eyed, Harry quickly held up his hands. “I won’t! I promise!”

One corner of Snape’s thin mouth, previously set in a grim line, quirked upwards ever so slightly and he promptly ducked his head, obscuring the reaction from Harry’s view. “Very well, Potter. At _my_ convenience.”

That seemed to settle it, and though it was unclear whether or when the man had any intention of making good of their agreement, Harry wasn’t about to pressure his luck. He nodded gingerly and shuffled a bit, but at Snape’s indicating eyebrow he hurriedly stepped over the threshold and exited the house. Halfway down the stairs he was halted by the deep voice of his former Professor: “Be here at 10 o’clock this next Friday evening.” Before Harry could react, the door was closed and the area around Spinner’s End lay quiet and desolate once again.

Blinking at the closed front door, Harry wondered briefly if he had imagined it then quickly shook his head. _Snap out of it! You’re not imagining it! Snape_ did _just invite you._

Unable to stifle the wide grin from spreading on his face, he continued down the stairs, now with a small skip in his step.

He couldn’t _wait_ for next Friday to arrive.


	4. Chapter 4

The entire week leading up to his anticipated visit to Spinner’s End, Harry had examined his feelings to the point of becoming so distracted at work that even the ever absent-minded Patrick had begun to take notice; once or twice lightly elbowing him during trainee meetings, jolting him out of his stupor. His colleague cast Harry another askance glance, yet commented no further.

Harry knew he wasn’t paying enough attention but he couldn’t help himself. The reassurance of the invite from Snape should have settled his previous nerves but, oddly, the anticipation only seemed to magnify them.

The wound at his side had started to slowly mend, thanks to Snape’s competent intervention no doubt, yet every time he twisted his torso, its sting remained; eerily reminding him of Snape’s long, nimble fingers meticulously ghosting the area as he had patched him up.

What exactly did Snape see when he looked at him? Did he _still_ see the face of James Potter, his childhood tormentor? Or was it Lily’s eyes that finally broke through the man’s hard shell and made him more biddable? Neither part sat very well with Harry. He wanted to get to know the man as Harry, simply _Harry_ , not as a former student or ‘Harry Potter, The Saviour’ or James and Lily Potter’s son. For some reason, he wanted Snape to see him without all the other layers that had inevitably been piled upon him since his birth.

Harry couldn’t be sure if he was still bitter about that; about Snape’s treatment of him and his friends in the past. If he truly was, would he had come back to Spinner’s End again and again? He wasn’t even sure if it was in his position to forgive the man. Snape was complex, obstinate and difficult. He owned no patience for teaching kids; nobody ever claimed otherwise. Was it an excuse to look past his actions? Maybe it was foolhardy but Harry refused to entertain the idea of Snape ‘getting away too easy’ for any past behaviour. The man had bloody sacrificed himself and died for a better world! He had spent his entire life playing a pawn and a double agent for two powerful, manipulative wizards; trying to make up for ill-fated choices in his youth which he’d likely never be able to repay anyway. Yet, the _attempt_ was there. There was a good man beneath it all, Harry was convinced.

“Your mind is drifting again,” Patrick remarked offhandedly and Harry snapped out of his musings once more.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, blushing, and cleared his throat twice. “Where were we?”

Perusing him reflectively, the lanky wizard turned fully towards him in his chair by their desks. Harry didn’t so much mind the steady stares Emmett directed towards him; there was nothing shifty about his gaze, only candid inquisitiveness. “Care to tell me what has gotten you so distracted as of late?”

It was rather unusual for his reserved partner to focus on personal matters rather than work.

Harry swallowed nervously, regarding the other man. “Um, n-nothing... I mean... I have a lot on my plate and I tend to wool-gather.” He emitted a half-hearted chuckle.

Patrick observed him with a speculative mien. “Hm, very well, if you say so. But if you don’t get your business solved with Snape soon, I might consider to apply for a different partner. Can’t have this bogged down by your muddled feelings for our consulting civilian on the case.”

Harry gaped at him. “Er, w-what?” Muddled _... feelings_? For– for _Snape_?

Patrick gave a shrug and returned to his work like he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell on Harry. “Well, it’s obvious,” he stated plainly.

_Err...No..._ _What is?_

As if sensing his question – likely given the petrified expression on his face – Patrick turned back to explain. “You have obsessed over Snape ever since I’ve known you, and given your recent visits to his house have made your even more brooding and absent-minded, I gather you haven’t found closure yet?”

Harry just continued to stare at his composed partner who regarded him with a blank look as if to say ‘I am right, aren’t I?’.

Was he?

Harry roamed for an answer to the question and deep down he sensed he may have known the answer all along. It took Emmett’s voice of reason to say it out loud, though.

So far, he had convinced himself that the concern was merely coming out of the goodness of his own heart. A genuine albeit noble belief in giving people a second chance; especially in regards to the man who had saved his life and everybody else’s.

When he thought of Snape, he no longer saw the intimidating, black-clad figure of his childhood menace who scorned and hated the very mention of him. However much any of that were still true for the other part, Harry’s regard for the man had shifted. It had become something else since he reviewed the memories in the Pensieve. He couldn’t stifle his curiosity around the man. Snape was a constant subject of fascination; he always had been. But rather than a persistent riddle one was reluctant to solve, he had become this undercurrent of moral ambiguity and complex personal history, too spellbinding not to stick your hand into.

_Maybe it’s simply a case of some twisted Florence Nightingale syndrome on top of a saviour complex that I’ve developed?_

Harry’s brain hurt at the mere thought.

But – with this new notion playing in the forefront of his mind – the harsh and severe lines of the man had become softer around the edges in his mind’s eye; forming a new recollection of him, something different and... and exciting.

_Did_ he have deeper feelings for Snape? And _if_ so, were they muddled?

Or defined and clear as day?


	5. Chapter 5

Standing on the steps to Snape’s house, carrying a decent bottle of wine (well, decent enough; he had grabbed the first and best one he saw on his way here) in one hand, Harry drove the other hand nervously through his already-dishevelled hair. He had tried persistently to do something about the mop on his head before leaving his flat, wanting to give off an impression that was both mature, composed and as far from his usual self as possible. (Alright, admittedly, as far away from the image of his father, perhaps).

Ever since Emmett’s level-headed confrontation, Harry’s head had been thrown into a spin. Fiddling with his sleeve, nerves buzzing under his skin, he grumbled under his breath. For all his worrying, Friday evening had arrived before he knew it, leaving him to dig out his old formal wear in the very last second _(typical)_. The ropes had somehow become worse for wear and with no time to take it to a dresser to get them fixed, he had grudgingly put them on. It was not like he had anything else fancy to wear. Clothing had _never_ been his forte.

Peeved, he led go of the threadbare material and stuck his hands deep into his pockets. Hopefully, Snape wouldn’t take too much notice. He didn’t strike Harry as a man who cared much about impeccable sartorial fashion. At least, not at Hogwarts. Then again, perhaps he did? It wouldn’t be the first time Harry had been wrong about him.

Before he could ponder more upon his host’s general interests, the door in front of him swung open in all its dramatic fashion, showing the host in question looming like a haunting shadow in the lit frame. Gulping down a little too fresh greeting, Harry stared up at the man, finally jolting one stricken muscle in his cheek into action and waved the bottle. “Brought some wine. Hope you like red?”

Overlooking the gesture, Snape gave him a slow once-over, sending a low shudder down his spine. There was nothing decidedly chilling about the gaze and yet Harry couldn’t help the common trepidation setting in. He wanted very much wanted to crawl down a hole when the man raised a sardonic eyebrow and drawled. “I don’t recall mentioning anything about dressing up for the evening, Potter.”

Mistaking his rhetorical tone, Harry started waffling. “I, er, no, sir, but I... well, it’s the most decent thing I had and I–”

Snape shot up a hand and sniffed. “Enough. I don’t care for your simpering excuses on the subject, Potter.” Flickering his eyes up and down Harry again, he continued imperviously. “ _Clearly_ you would have failed to listen to any instructions I would have given, anyhow.”

Nettled by the man’s abrasive attitude, Harry held back a retort. _Already_ it was going downhill. This was not what he had wished for. Some of his disappointment must have trickled into his visage because Snape let out an uncharacteristically deep exhale – as opposed to the dismissive huffs he usually expelled – and stepped back from the frame to hold the door open.

Harry chewed on his lower lip, once again unsettled by Snape’s forbidding posture and shuttered face. Well, he hadn’t exactly imagined him welcoming him with open arms, had he?

As soon as the literal image entered his mind, he became flushed. It was preposterous that he should feel anything for the man.

... Surely?

“Well?” the older wizard intoned, oblivious to Harry’s inner turmoil. “Are you waiting for an engraved invitation, Potter?” He opened the door wider with a mildly chagrined expression as if he was already regretting the whole idea. “ _Do not_ dawdle.”

As per usual, his tone of command spurred Harry into action. He scurried up the stairs and entered the house; the hinges of the door immediately creaking shut behind him, followed by a blur of ink-black ropes moving past him. Harry blinked owlishly after the tall, dark-haired shape disappearing into the kitchen and then trekked gingerly after him. He stopped just before entering, peering around, fearful to disturb or unintentionally collide with the foreboding owner who had momentarily vanished.

“If you will, you can reside in the living room until dinner is on the table.” Reappearing on his left, from an adjacent room to the kitchen, Snape shot him a hawkish glance. “Otherwise, the dining room is ready.” The words sounded flat and forced and Harry guessed the man was treading on unfamiliar grounds; likely unaccustomed in the arts of entertaining guests. No wonder, really, given how long he had spent time alone and in isolation and, before that; spurned and disliked all through his adult life and youth. Maybe he had never had the chance to practise _at all_.

Snape’s piercing eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, likely recognizing the soft, pitying look surfacing in Harry’s eyes for a moment, and Harry quickly rushed to blink it away and dart his attention towards anything other in the kitchen than the living, breathing embodiment of his current fixation.

 _Idiot_. _Don’t muck this up anymore than what you already have. Don’t give him another reason to kick you to the curb again. And_ for good _, this time._

Clearing his throat, Harry ventured. “Um, is there – is there anything I can do to help?”

Pursing his thin lips, the former spy snapped his gaze forward and steered towards the kitchen counter where several plates of, frankly, mouth-watering selection of foods were laying in waiting. Harry momentarily wanted to ask where Snape exactly got such luxurious deliveries from; if he even made the dishes himself (could Snape _cook_? Then again a Potions Master naturally knew his way around pots and pans...). But he stifled the urge when the man finally answered his inquiry. “No need, Potter. I’m not so decrepit _yet_ ,” he rebutted waspishly with his back turned. “Besides, _you_ are the guest.” Twisting his head inches in Harry’s direction, the hooked nose came into profile. “Go sit down.” He lifted a wiry arm; long, pallid fingers elegantly stretched out in waiting. “And hand me the wine. I’ll open it.”

Slightly perturbed, Harry nonetheless did as told, not wanting to upset the host further. Handing over the wine, his fingers graced lightly against Snape’s cool ones. Before he could process the contact, Snape had quickly snatched the bottle from his grip and turned back to face the counter where he made short work of opening the bottle and pouring two glasses. Swift and concisely.

Harry wondered about the man’s paradoxical behaviour; inviting him in, preparing all this delicious food and yet acting as if he wanted to be anywhere but here.

Should he be so surprised that Snape hadn’t let down his hostile guard yet?

Or was there some kind of agenda behind the gesture of the invitation? Did Snape hope to gain favour by the Ministry by treating their ‘precious’ war-hero marginally decently for the time being?

Then again: wasn’t Snape’s house-arrest coming to an end? What else could the man hope to gain?

Harry quietly perused the back of his former Professor. He didn’t _want_ to mistrust Snape. Yet, perhaps he couldn’t help himself; his insecurity sowing seeds of doubt in him, igniting an age-old reservation around his old enemy House.

“For pity’s sake,” Snape hissed under his breath, leaning against the counter; his white hands hard-clenched at the edge. For a brief second, Harry thought it was from pain, watching the thin shoulder blades almost touching, trembling under the clothes, but then the tight voice growled in biting vitriol. “Stop your incessant gawking, Potter! I cannot hear myself _think_ with your damned cogwheels churning from over there!”

Harry flinched, staring dumbfounded at the hunched-over man, unable to see his face. He couldn’t tell if some sort of physical ailment bothered Snape or if it was something else entirely. He knew Snape was still recovering, but it worried him if the man still suffered from the wounds sustained to his neck.

“Are-are you in pain, sir? Is there something I can do?”

A harsh, mirthless chortle broke from the man’s throat. Then he drew in a deep breath and released some of the tension in his back. “ _Go. Sit. Down,_ ” he reiterated crisply without looking up and Harry quickly picked up his cue and retreated into the room next to the kitchen.

 _Wait_. Snape had a _dining room_? The house must have been added an Extension Charm since there was no way it could fit a room of this size from its outside looks. The room itself was completely empty, save for an unadorned dinner table surrounded by a couple of chairs in the middle of it. If it wasn’t for the bleak darkness encroaching on the dinner setting, Harry would have _almost_ been inclined to call it atmospheric.

He gulped, deflated, as he contemplated the place. Was he doing this all wrong? Could he _really_ prevent Snape from utterly despising him for the rest of his life? Maybe it was all futile...

He didn’t have time to ponder about the sentiment much longer: Snape had followed him inside with the plates magically floating in front of him.

“Move, Potter,” Snape bid in a tone that crept up the back of Harry’s neck. “If you please.”

Harry jumped to the side, making room for him to pass. Striding over to the table, Snape set the table with the flick of a hand and Harry hungrily eyed the food, inching closer. It certainly looked exemplary made. In that case, it would be the first, decent meal Harry had had in ages (not discounting dinners at the Burrow but they had been few and far between for some time now). He didn’t have the culinary skills to make anything lavish for himself in his small two-room apartment – despite all his home-cooking skills inescapably had been honed in his childhood years at the Dursleys. Or, perhaps _because_ of it. He just didn’t have any great mind to do for himself. It seemed rather pointless to make something this lavish for _one_ person, after all.

“Sit down.” This time, Snape’s voice had taken on a less stinging note, although it could hardly be called _warm_ , and Harry blinked up to see that the man had already taken up seat at one end of the table, looking at him with an expectant eyebrow raised.

Snapping out of it, Harry padded over to the other end and took his seat, not taking his eyes off the food for long.

“Do help yourself, Potter. Don’t expect house-elves come running at your beck and call here.” The prickly drawl reverberated throughout the hollow room and for a second time that night, Harry wondered about the nature of Snape’s invite. However, the thought was soon usurped by his growling stomach. He was starving, in fact, and didn’t have to be told twice. Quickly digging into the delicious trays in front of him, he sensed Snape observing him with an inscrutable look. He had a quick flashback to some old Muggle fairy-tale of children eating enchanted food and ending up becoming forever trapped in the world of their captor. _Huh. The irony_.

Choking on a particularly savoury baked potato, he quickly swallowed it (along with his laugh). Across from him, Snape merely shot him another raised eyebrow, his face staying impassive as he calmly continued to eat perfectly balanced bites from his plate. Nothing like Harry’s over-stuffed plate. Swallowing another voluminous bite, Harry blushed lightly. Godric, he was behaving rather uncouth. Placing his cutlery back down, he eyed his already half-consumed plate of food petulantly, his stomach still rumbling, either from the gorging or unquenched hunger. Actually, when he thought about it, no one had ever served him such a meal before. At least, not since the Holidays seasons at Hogwarts.

“Something the matter with the food?” Snape sent him a flat look.

“Uh, no... _no_! I –” Harry chewed on his lower lip. Closing his eyes briefly, he sighed despondently. “I was just thinking about the food at Hogwarts... I mean, until then I had never had anything _close_ to such lavish meals, and I... well, I kind of miss it, you know?” He chuckled nervously and scratched the back of his head. Peering up at Snape he realized the sentiment was not returned. _Of course_ , it wasn’t. He scrambled to explain. “I just mean to say that this is,” he gestured to the food on the table, blushing at his lack of better words, “– _delicious,_ and it reminded of those days with...with my friends, and away from my aunt and uncle’s...” Voice fading out, he reluctantly met Snape’s eyes, not knowing what kind of scathing retort he should prepare himself for.

Snape’s expression appeared as carefully blank as before while he stared back at Harry, his dark eyes seeming even darker, if possible. For a moment, Harry wondered if the man was merely lost in thought; a rare sight for the razor-sharp wizard who never missed an opportunity to add a withering remark.

Finally, Snape tore his gaze away. To Harry, it felt like ripping away a band-aid too soon. He stifled the small gasp in the back of his throat, promptly ducking his head, his ears warm. _What are you thinking? Confessing something as silly as_ that _to Snape?_ To think, only weeks ago he had been chasing dangerous Dark Wizards around Diagon Alley, barely warding off killing curses, and now he was sitting and sweating in front of Snape, getting lost in childish nostalgia.

 _You’re not that skimpy, little kid, anymore. It’s not like there’s anything to feel sorry for. You have clothes on your body, a decent job and a_ more _than decent deposit in the bank. You could just hire your own cook if you wanted to._

“Potter!”

Harry was promptly snapped from his internal pity-party. “Huh?”

Short of rolling his eyes, Snape shot him an impatient look, reminiscent of Harry’s school days. “Pay attention.”

“Um, sure. Sorry.” Feeling jittery, he mindlessly reached for his wineglass to take a hasty gulp and fought off a small grimace at the taste. _Ugh,_ not _a good choice of wine. No surprise._ Snape clearly had had the same thought since his own glass remained untouched. Out of politeness (and, admittedly, lingering hunger), Harry picked up for his cutlery and proceeded to eat in a more composed manner. Under his lashes he watched his host rub the bridge of his aquiline nose, looking as if he was mentally gathering strength.

“As you may have assumed, I’m not in the habit of inviting... _guests_ over,” Snape sneered, as if the common notion itself was enough to disgust him. “Don’t make me regret it.” The warning flash in the anthracite orbs held Harry back from opening his mouth any further and, instead, he glared contritely down into the tablecloth. After a pause, Snape’s impassive voice reached him from across the table. “And your injury? Not sprung it open from over-working yourself again, have you now?” he disparaged with affected indifference.

Harry blinked. How did Snape know of his extra working hours? Was it that visible? Absentmindedly, Harry reached up and touched his chin. “Um... No, it’s healing up just fine. T-thank you again.”

Belatedly, he realized Snape’s eyes had followed the movement of his fingers and beat down a blush.

Leaning back, Snape met Harry’s gaze steadily. It felt like his soul was being dissected by the black, sagacious eyes from across the table; all of a sudden, too exposed, too raw, even in the sparse light of the candles. For all he knew, he could be back at school and at the receiving end of one of the many penetrative stares of Professor Snape as he berated him.

Harry squirmed in his seat. But Snape said nothing. He simply sat there, tracing the edge of his lip with the tip of a finger while carefully studying him.

Harry felt discombobulated. Wasn’t he going to say anything?

Swallowing, he had suddenly lost the rest of his appetite and put down his knife and fork again. A self-conscious quietude settled around the table before Snape finally made a move to rise. He stood smoothly and looked down his nose with the same shuttered expression. These mercurial shifts were positively jarring. “If you’re quite finished with your dinner, tea will be served in the living room.” An underlying derision infused the announcement, as if the man found the whole idea of entertaining another human being entirely superfluous and bothersome. He likely opined he could use his precious time for much better things.

Harry barely had time to nod before Snape waved a hand that caused the plates to gather in a row and float back into the kitchen where they started cleaning themselves. Then the wizard spun on his heel, ropes billowing after him, and strode out of the dining room, as per usual not waiting around for Harry to follow.

Harry sprung into action, glad to be leaving the gloomy surroundings, and though the living room didn’t exactly inspired cosiness and comfort, he found the light of the fireplace mercifully forgiving on the austere place.

“Thank you for the lovely dinner and– _oh_! Sorry, sir!” He had barrelled directly into Snape’s tall, thin chest coming ‘round the corner to the living room. He caught the look on Snape’s face, the increasing glower, and swallowed thickly.

“Please _refrain_ from running in this house.”

“Ah – uh – yes, of course.”

Snape emitted a low harrumph and stepped out of Harry’s way to allow him inside the living room. As suspected, a newly lit fire in the fireplace as well as several candles adorning the shelves and window frame did much to soften the dark interior. Harry let out a small sigh and took place in the brown, chubby chair by the fireplace. Snape soon returned with a tea tray and Harry surreptitiously bit his lip at the sight of Severus Snape serving ginger snaps and custard creams. Who’d have thought the snarky man had a sweet tooth?

“Thank you,” he muttered as Snape put down the tray on a small table between them. Something indefinable crossed the man’s sallow face and he quickly hid behind the curtain of ink-black hair and moved to the opposite chair, taking a seat. The fleeting expression was gone and the dark stare now bore into the teapot as if it had done him some personal offense while he served the tea.

Harry inhaled the pleasant aroma filling the air. For all their blundering missteps, they fell into a relatively inhabitable silence, enjoying their warm beverages while staring into the roaring fire.

Snape eventually put down his cup, breaking the quietude. “Care for a game of chess?”

Caught completely off guard by the perfectly innocently posed question – or, perhaps, because it was _Snape_ suggesting anything remotely social – Harry was pulled from his lulling state. Frankly, he was grateful for the distraction. Nodding gingerly, he watched Snape wave a hand, summoning the board game and placing it beside the tea tray. To his surprise, it was a regular Muggle chessboard; a fairly old and used one by the looks of it. Probably a family heirloom. However, why Snape preferred _this_ to Wizard’s Chess, given his aversion to his own father and so much belonging to the Muggle world, was rather peculiar.

They soon became consumed with the game; Harry wasn’t sure for how long. There was no need for words now with their eyes and minds focused on the chess pieces and the white and brown chequered board; square and comforting in all its complexity. Naturally, Snape proved a proficient adversary and though Harry was not as skilled as Ron in the game, he found himself an equal in Snape’s studious consideration of each move, whereas Ron could act more aggressively, even boastful at times.

Snape’s furrowed brow seemed to deepen the longer they played; one slim, pale finger gliding along the edge of his lower lip in contemplation as he eyed each piece. Harry found himself intrigued by the motion, furtively peering up under his lashes at the older wizard before him.

“Haven’t you learned that it is impolite to stare... Potter?” Snape drily noted without looking up.

Harry jumped in his seat, face flushed. “S-sorry.” Feeling rather heated in his dress ropes, he tugged them off. Snape eyed the movement speculatively before fastening his attention on the board once again.

They fell back into the game; Harry, however, was unable to concentrate. He gnawed on his lip with increasing trepidation, feeling like he couldn’t sit still. Finally, he couldn’t hold himself back any longer and it all just blurted out: “Ron says I shouldn’t be so quick to forgive you.”

There was a brief pause in the long, pale fingers hovering above the chessboard – and Harry was about ready for the floor to open up and swallow him whole – before the sombre man spoke. “For once, I believe Mr. Weasley finally spoke something intelligent.”

Overlooking the insult towards his friend, Harry frowned. “I don’t believe him,” he replied staunchly.

Snape finally looked up from the board, fixing him with a hard stare. “I wilfully _spited_ children under my tutelage, Potter. I am sure Miss Granger or Mr. Longbottom can attest to that.” Harry winced and Snape’s quick eyes caught it, narrowing. “The Dark Lord wasn’t looking into every specific classroom at every time of the day. And those at school who followed him were either too obtuse or too scared to do the same with such dedicated diligence. Don’t you think I wasn’t aware that I could have withheld some of the sharper lashes of my tongue, hm? Don’t you think I know I let too much of my objectionable persona out onto undeserving, unsuspecting minors? I am very well aware of my irredeemable faults. I do not need your pity, or forgiveness, for that matter.”

“I wasn’t going to–” Harry started but Snape interrupted irascibly, leaning away from the board to pin him with the full force of his gaze.

“Don’t let yourself be blinded by this,” his thin upper lip curled into an ugly sneer, “this _show_ of good faith or whatever you choose to call this, frankly, _absurd_ arrangement we have found ourselves in.” His voice caught between clenched teeth. “You’d be foolish otherwise and I’m not at all sure I’d let you into house if you were.”

Harry stared at the man across from him. “I – it’s not a show of good faith,” he contended in a small voice but was once again rudely cut short by Snape:

“I was angry and under pressure and I misused my authority! Don’t you think I’ve been telling myself all this?! That I’m a vile monster deserving of my punishment?! Don’t think you have me all figured out by now, Potter!”

“Stop this!” Harry interjected angrily. “Stop this damned self-hatred!” He slammed his hand down on the arm of his chair, surprising himself by the sudden show of force.

Snape seemed less surprised. “Language, Potter,” came the soft hiss, almost like a quip.

Mortified, Harry dragged a shaky hand through his hair. “I... I am sorry, Snape. I didn’t come here to yell at you. That wasn’t how this was supposed to go.” He sighed.

“Oh?” the man mockingly queried; eyes perceptive as a hawk’s. “How exactly did you _think_ this one would go?”

Opening and closing his mouth, Harry finally managed to stutter forth. “Um, well, actually, I had hoped to know a little bit more about, well, my parents... from their school days?”

“I do not see what else you could possibly want to know,” Snape retorted crisply as if he was merely brushing aside useless contribution in class. “And I do not see why you would come to _me_ with such sentimental questions. Surely, there must be other persons more _eligible_ to give you satisfactory answers on your parents’ history than me.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “That’s exactly the reason why I ask you, Snape. I don’t want answers that coddle my mind and confirm the idealized images I’ve built of my parents. I want the truth; however harsh it might seem, coming from you.” He blushed a bit, seeing the black eyebrow raised emphatically.

“Indeed? The _truth_?” Snape drawled slowly.

Harry fidgeted in his seat under the intent gaze. “Um, yes,” he steeled himself, “of course. If you would, please?”

Snape regarded him for a minute or so, then seemed to deem any further attempt to discourage his guest’s curiosity futile. Pursing his thin lips in an ill-concealed sneer, his nostrils flared and he paused, teeth clenched as if it took tremendous force to speak the words. “As it may have occurred to you, I have no further information to disclose in regards to your _beloved_ _father_ ,” he jeered, “besides that which you already know. I do not carry a particularly favourable view of him and I’m sure many would contest whatever I have to say anyhow.”

Harry sighed inwardly. Why should he be surprised this would be Snape’s response? “And?” he urged patiently. “My mother?”

Snape exhaled at length; the Adam’s apple working along his marred throat. “Lily was... different. For that very reason I had such a hard time grasping why she _ever_ found _any_ attraction with that dunderheaded buffo–” Snape stopped himself and bluntly rephrased. “She was unprejudiced. Unlike _most_.” The last word dripped with such spiteful vitriol, it did not take any great imagination to guess to whom Snape was referring.

Harry wondered what exactly his mother had seen in Snape when they were young. Likely his different appearance and mind, but he sensed there was more to it. A kindred spirit perhaps, no matter how unlikely that sounded. Indeed, there were more layers to his mother than he’d previously thought. Plus, there was something about the way Snape phrased his relationship with her. Like they had shared a secret bond, or unbreakable pact of sorts, before they fell out.

“And before your nosy imagination runs away with you again, Potter,” Snape deadpanned, apparently reading his mind, “yes, she saw that I was...” the resigned sigh escaping his lips was not lost on Harry, “ _different_ too, though in other ways, and she accepted me. She never judged me.”

While Snape remained unwilling to divulge into the exact reason behind any further, in the back of Harry’s mind roamed the answer to his question; that Snape simply hadn’t seen Lily in _that_ way.

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. Hard. “You must have _some_ remaining functioning brain cells left in that battered Auror trainee head of yours, surely?” he muttered sharply and swung his black gaze back up, pinning Harry to his seat with an incensed look. “ _Think_ , Potter! What does your immaculate Gryffindor instinct tell you could _possibly_ be ‘wrong’ with me?”

Startled, Harry stared at him wide-eyed. “Ah, er, no-nothing wrong, sir, I – I had a feeling you were...,” he faltered under the levelling look from Snape, “but I wasn’t going to say it. I wanted to hear it from you.”

“What, so you could taunt me about it? Hold it against me?”

“N-no! No, I would _never_!”

Glaring daggers, Snape assessed him a minute longer before finally averting his gaze and Harry could breathe again. Sinking slightly back into his chair, he carefully observed the so-far unseen emotions flitting across the harsh, taut features of his former Professor. Harry had so many questions. Not just about his mother, he realized. About _him_. About Snape. Had he ever been in love with someone at school that he hadn’t told anyone about? Had Lily known? And what were his first thoughts when Harry had saved him; knowing he was alive? How had he been treated since he woke up? What he had been doing all this time in house-arrest?

Across from him, Snape suddenly looked tired. “If you really want to know how I saw your parents: Your mother... _Lily_ was flawless in all but one aspect: She loved your father unconditionally.”

“ _Nobody_ is flawless.”

Snape let out a derisive huff and peered into the open fire. “Your mother was. Believe me.”

“I don’t,” Harry shook his head vehemently.

The older wizard snapped his gaze back to him. “Cease your impertinent obstinacy, Potter. I didn’t invite you here to lend an ear to your cheek just so you could confirm your own convictions.”

Frowning, Harry tipped his head slightly to one side. “Then why?”

“Why _what_?” Clearly irritated that he wasn’t able to shoot down Harry’s incessant questioning, Snape turned his head to stare demonstratively into the fire.

“Why did you invite me here?”

Pinned in place by nothing more than that gaze, Harry was once more thoroughly befuddled by what exactly went on behind the impossible dark orbs of the older man. It was like Snape was constantly reassessing his exact reasons for keeping his company (whether that was in regard to his own reasons or Harry’s?).

“I believe you would, more or less, have invited yourself if I hadn’t eventually given into your persistent presence in front of my home.”

It was a brusque answer and far from satisfactory, but Harry was getting too tired to get into it tonight. In fact, this whole week’s rigours and constant worrying whether or not Snape would ever look at him again finally came crashing down on him. Heaving a deep sigh, he slumped back into the chair and took off his glasses to rub his eyes exhaustively. He missed the gaze that Snape sent him.

Rising, Snape declared impatiently. “I’ll make more tea. We’ve run out.” It sounded more like an excuse to get out of the room. Harry nodded tiredly, having no energy to remark that there was likely plenty of tea left in the pot.

When Snape had left, he noticed, for the first time, a threadbare sofa by the window across from him. With his head heavy from the wine and body lulled by the heat of the fire and strong tea, he went over to it and gingerly sat down to test it out. It was surprisingly comfortable; with a couple of throw pillows and an old plaid. If he could just close his eyes for a brief moment while Snape was out, the latter would be none the wiser. Afterwards, he should probably be on his way home. No need to overstay his welcome.

Harry yawned and rested his head on one of the pillows which smelled of mothballs and herbs and, oddly enough, some kind of menthol tobacco.

_Hm... Does Snape smoke?_

By the time Snape had returned with the freshly-brewed tea, he had gone out like a light.


End file.
